Left on Paradise

by Kirk Adams

  “They’re no different here,” Alan said. “Just more homophobes. I’m beginning to think it’s a genetic flaw of heterosexuals to see us as different than themselves. Only if we don’t tell will they not ask.”

  “She didn’t mean anything,” Steve replied. “She was cold and wet.”

  “Out of the mouth speaks the heart.”

  Steve said nothing.

  “She’s a feminist,” Alan said, “for equal rights and equal work. Right? No chivalry, no patriarchal daintiness. And the men have no right to judge me. I was doing my assigned work. It was her turn for firewood. Why should I get soaked for her? Would she come into the rain to help me? She’s not in Hollywood now. None of us are.”

  Steve shook his head and Alan muttered a few obscenities.

  “I was going to help,” Alan said, “as soon as I finished cooking. There was plenty of wood and the bread couldn’t wait. Just like my mother—had to have it done right when she said. No patience at all. Women make me crazy.”

  Steve shrugged.

  “And I’ll tell you something else,” Alan continued, “they’re no different here than over there. Only here you can’t ...”

  Crash! A large bowl filled with slow-rising bread dough fell from the table. Alan spun and looked down to see the entire day’s work covered with dust and mud and a few dead bugs. Theodore and Tyrone stood an arm’s length away, one pushing and the other pulling at his twin.

  Alan lunged for the boys—who jumped away just in the nick of time—then watched as the twins sprinted to opposite sides of the tent.

  “Not that trick again,” Alan said as a grim smile crossed his face and he vaulted over the table, blocking the sole exit just as the boys circled to reach it. The twins ran straight into his arms and he subdued them, dragging each one by the wrist toward the dough.

  “Pick it up,” Alan ordered.

  The boys didn’t move.

  “Pick it up,” the man growled louder.

  Still the boys didn’t move.

  “I’m telling you boys to pick it up or I’m going to beat you a ...”

  “Alan,” Steve interrupted, “patience.”

  Alan shoved a morsel of dirty dough into Tyrone’s mouth. “Here’s your dinner,” he barked. “You helped make it, so you get the first bite.”

  Tyrone gagged, spit the dough out, and bawled as Alan turned toward his twin and asked whether that boy also wished to eat a mud pie, but Theodore didn’t want a mud pie and kicked Alan hard in the leg to prove it.

  Alan grabbed the defiant boy, forced his mouth open with one hand as he stuffed a bit of dough into his mouth with the other.

  Theodore spit the dough into Alan’s face, wiggled free, and ran home with his brother following in his footsteps—both boys running straight to their mother to tattle on their older neighbor.

  It already was afternoon when Linh walked barefoot beyond the perimeter, dressed in a torn sweatshirt and grungy shorts. The cold rain streamed down her legs as she inched forward, her flip-flops sinking deep into puddles which filled every hole in the earth. Mud oozed over her toes, only partially washed by rain.

  “At least,” Linh told herself with a smile, “the toilet will be clean.”

  Now the woman frowned—a shallow pond had flooded the trail. Splashing through the water, she soon came to a canvas wall that separated private necessities from public exposure. The mud between her toes seemed grittier than before and the puddle looked off-color ...

  Linh gasped.

  A large strand of toilet paper was stuck to her foot. Shaking it off with a yelp, she looked toward the drainage ditch—from which the overflow backed up. Something solid drifted into her foot. With a groan, Linh shook off the shit now stuck between her toes, but her kick was so sharp that the sewage disintegrated into small bits that sprinkled across her calves. She shook her legs until the biggest chunks fell away, then maneuvered to dry land, trying not to splash as she waded through open sewage. Reaching solid ground, she first jogged and then sprinted for help. Breathless and winded, she sounded the alarm as soon as she reached the village.

  Her cries didn’t go unheeded. The risk to public health was immediately recognized and everyone who could work—which exempted only Ursula, Kit, and the children—dressed in their worst clothes. Boots were left in tents and torn shirts donned. Ten minutes later the camp was assembled, axes and saws collected, and hazardous waste bags drawn from emergency stores. Villagers marched to the recycling area to begin cleanup. One work party felled trees to dam the rising water while a second detail placed sandbags in an improvised levy to contain the overflow. A third group waded directly into the sewage—shovels in hand—to clear fouled drainage ditches. While the first two parties built a foot-high berm to block the rising tide of sewage, the diggers spent two hours working through the clogged drainage trenches. When they finally snaked through the final plug, water swirled around their feet and drained into the woods, taking with it whatever waste could be carried away. A few minutes later, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and the woods warmed.

  Cleanup required the rest of the day. Shovels were used to clear the upper layer of contaminated soil from the path leading to camp, as well as to dig pits and trenches for draining puddles of raw sewage. Sandbagged berms were fortified to form permanent redoubts against future overflows and the toilets themselves were reengineered to better separate human flesh from its waste products. The sun burned brighter by the minute and even the wettest jeans soon grew stiff in the heat. Perspiration added to the itch of dried urine and crusted dung and soon everyone reeked of all three. Villagers cussed each other for every slop of sewage and the sun for every drop of sweat. Feet slipped in the gritty earth and hands shriveled from urine-polluted water.

  Only at dusk was it decided to stop work—and even then only after Ryan announced a need for more salt-water and sand before cleanup efforts could continue. Soon a ragged column of ill-smelling idealists returned to their village. The cleanest among them was covered with muck from toe to thigh while the dirtiest was utterly polluted. A few laughed at themselves while the less cheerful cursed their ill fortune.

  Lisa was in the worst shape. She was covered from head to toe with muck and mud. Soiled bits of toilet paper clung to her bare legs and her clothes smelled like warm piss. The red hair that reached the small of her back looked shit brown wherever it had been left uncovered by an old bandana used to keep hair away from the young woman’s face. Looking at her arms and legs, Lisa suggested villagers make the best of good weather and a bad situation by taking a swim. Within fifteen minutes, the villagers were in various stages of undress at the beach. Some peeled their clothes on shore while others waded into the water before stripping. Most left their undergarments on, though a couple men and one woman swam naked. Heather alone bathed in shorts and shirt. There was little talk and no play—only a serious effort to scrub and rinse. When they were done, a bonfire was lit and nearly every piece of sewage-soiled clothing thrown into it. A few naked villagers, along with a dozen others clothed in stained rags, straggled to the village in search of clean clothes and cooked food.

  Meanwhile, Ursula and Kit—whose ankle could bear a little weight—had remained at camp to boil soup and bake bread for dinner and now served their fellow villagers as the latter arrived in the commons with clean clothes and hungry stomachs. A short time after dinner, children were sent to bed as an emergency meeting of the village was called. It already was Friday night and there were issues to be cleared before the weekend began.

  All eyes were on Kit as she called the meeting to order. She wore a baggy sweatshirt and faded jeans hung loose around her hips. Her feet were covered with sandals and her hair fell straight to her shoulders. She wore no makeup and also spoke without adornment. While she favored one leg and steadied herself with an improvised crutch cut from green bamboo, she was able to stand while speaking.

  “We have issues,” Kit said. “Lisa first.”

  Lisa had burned her clot
hes and not fetched others. She wrapped only a towel around her hips and wore no shirt—showing to everyone that her breasts had shriveled from the cold and wet. The young woman was short with words and curt in tone.

  “We had an environmental disaster today,” Lisa said. “It’s contained now, but there’s a week of cleanup ahead so the sewage doesn’t contaminate the environment. We’ve managed to pollute virgin forest.”

  “I’d say we fertilized the forest,” Ryan said.

  “The dung will enrich the earth,” Lisa said, “but it’ll also bring disease and the littering of the woods with used toilet paper. I doubt anyone noticed, but the rains washed away the compost heap and recyclable trash—and even the non-recyclables. I found disposable razors as far as the trail. If anyone stepped on one of them, they’ll need a tetanus booster. Immediately.”

  “Where can I find those razors?” Maria said and several women nodded in agreement.

  “Have you forgotten,” Lisa continued, “that any animal who steps on an old razor or takes one between its teeth will be cut and possibly infected. We have to find the razors and bury them. It’ll take two of us working a week to gather trash. And another two to rake the lost compost.”

  “Just let it fertilize the woods,” Jason said.

  “Fine. Then you can squat on your dope seeds if you want anything to grow. The manure is gone and we didn’t bring artificial fertilizer.”

  “Like I said,” Jason said, “give me tall boots and a short shovel. My weed has a need to feed.”

  “We need four committed environmentalists,” Lisa continued. “The work will be messy and hard. Who wants to help me?”

  “Our first superfund cleanup,” someone muttered and a couple people laughed.

  “I will,” Jose said.

  “Me too,” Brent said.

  John raised his hand and the work detail was filled.

  “Next issue,” Kit said.

  Charles raised his hand. “Joan and I,” he said, “would like to announce our plan to remarry.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Why bother?” Heather said out loud.

  “What did you say?” Joan asked.

  “Why bother?” Heather continued. “Why don’t you just live together? There’s a sin you haven’t committed.”

  “There is no sin in Eden,” Charles replied with suppressed irritation, “and we did live together for a few months—long before it was fashionable. When it was an act of protest as much as love.”

  “Seriously,” Heather said as she rolled her eyes, “I don’t understand the point.”

  “Your father and I married for life,” Joan said, scarcely able to restrain her exasperation, “and we intend to keep our vows. We’re monogamous.”

  “That’s news.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “How,” Heather said with evident scorn, “did you ever teach ethics with a straight face?”

  “Listen daughter,” Joan growled, “I still remember the night when you were little more than sperm dripping down my thigh. Don’t lecture me about ethics or tell me about marriage when you haven’t had the slightest feel of a man between your legs.”

  Heather gasped and tears welled in her eyes, but she said no more as her parents exchanged truncated vows before a crowd of cheerless witnesses. Only after a quiet pause following the impromptu ceremony did Ryan break the awkward silence.

  “I also plan to marry,” Ryan said.

  “Congratulations,” Kit replied. “Now?”

  “Not yet,” Ryan answered. “I’d like to give you a proper wedding and we haven’t had time to talk for five minutes all week. We’ll send invitations later. Does that work for everyone?”

  Kit nodded as the neighborhood’s mood lightened as neighbors talked and teased while she took control of the meeting and Linh fetched coffee.

  “What’s next on the agenda?”

  “John and I,” Deidra announced, “don’t intend to renew our vows. At least I don’t.”

  No one objected.

  “And Sean has moved into my tent,” Deidra added.

  John just glared at his ex-wife (to whom he was married only a moment earlier) while Ursula jumped to her feet—pointing at Sean with a shaking finger and shouting at him with quivering lips.

  “Bastard,” Ursula screamed. “You’re not deserting me like this.”

  Sean dropped his eyes.

  “I’m pressing a paternity suit,” Ursula said.

  “I sympathize,” Charles now stood to speak, “with your plight, but the marriage laws are quite clear. No one can be forced to marry.”

  Ursula started straight at Charles.

  “Then,” the pregnant woman said, “he can take care of his baby. I’m giving him joint custody. He’ll watch the baby every other day.”

  Sean jumped to his feet. “It’s your choice,” he protested, “to have a baby.”

  “And it’s my choice to let you feed him every other night.”

  “I can’t make milk.”

  “Get a goat.”

  Sean whispered into Deidra’s ear and she nodded just before he stood to his feet and addressed the village.

  “Deidra and I,” Sean said, “would like to announce our engagement. We want to marry right now.”

  A groan of disgust sounded from the crowd and John walked away, soon followed by Ursula. Linh and Tiffany joined them for several minutes before eventually returning for a debate about supplies in which Maria complained she was down to her last razor and Hilary said the village supply of decent clothing was almost gone—the discussion ending only when villagers voted to petition Executive Council for guidance. With the supply issue tabled, Kit asked for other issues of concern and Alan brought yet another matter to the table.

  “I’m sick of rude children,” he said. “Those brats ruined my bread after hours of work and their mother never even apologized.”

  “You threatened my children,” Tiffany raised her voice. “You owe them an apology.”

  “What they are owed,” Alan said, “is some old-fashioned discipline.”

  “They’re not your children,” Tiffany declared.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Alan said, “they’re the village’s children. If I have to help take care of them, I have the right to punish them.”

  “If you as much as sit one of my twins in a corner,” Tiffany snarled, “I swear I’ll hurt you in ways you’ve never imagined.”

  “She threatened me.”

  “You laid hands on my children. That dough could have choked them. It could have killed them.”

  “It was just a little dough,” Alan replied. “Just as little as the manners of your kids.”

  “Chill out,” Brent said, pressing his wife’s shoulders until she sat down. “They’re our children and we’ll raise them. As we see fit.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. They belong to us all. Just as I was told when all of you made me babysit the brats.”

  “That’s just figurative language.”

  “No,” Alan said, “they’re brats. Literally.”

  “I meant,” Brent growled, his nostrils flared and face red, “the village parenting idea. It only means that we care for each other in a spirit of true cooperation.”

  “My black eye wasn’t figurative,” Alan retorted, “nor my wasted work. Nor the pain of caring for those human miscreants and unbaptized demonstrations of original sin. In fact, I don’t even remember myself being particularly cooperative. I was forced to help against my will. Compulsion made me help, not freedom.”

  “The point is,” Kit said as she joined the dispute with evident agitation in her voice, “we need to insure bad children are properly disciplined. Right?”

  “Socialized,” Hilary said.

  “The issue is to correct bad behavior,” Kit said. “True or false?”

  “That’s PTA window-dressing,” Hilary said. “The problem isn’t to insure good boys and girls, but to ad
dress fundamental social obligations. Alan is right about the core issue: if the community can force him to watch other people’s offspring, then the community holds the power to enforce social conformity against those same children whose interests it secures. Either it takes parents or a village, but someone has to be in charge.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Alan said.

  Hilary panned her audience. “Since we’re all progressives,” she declared, “and believe it does take a village to raise a child, the only real debate regards the rules and regulations we’ll adopt as a village. As I see it, the first debate is how we’ll supplement timeouts.”

  “I vote for capital ... I mean, corporal punishment,” Alan shouted.

  The two mothers jumped to their feet and sprang forward, along with their husbands.

  “Never,” Linh yelled. “You have no right.”

  “You’re assuming you’ve won the argument,” Viet said a little less loud, “before it’s been made. There’s no way you can get eleven votes from this neighborhood to end parental rights. To abolish the traditional family.”

  For the next hour, Hilary argued her point and Viet spoke for parental authority. Hilary stressed authority was social in nature, proceeding from the general will of the people to individual households. She also noted that parental rights and parental responsibilities were codified in public law and unfit parents could have children forcibly removed. Viet claimed it was parents who gave birth and nourished life who were responsible for their offspring, even if their authority was less than absolute. He also insisted the natural rights of parents could be amended only when the needs of children were no longer being met—just as step-parents were needed only when natural ones died or departed.

  Both perspectives proved persuasive and the final vote was taken only after the entire neighborhood had spoken its peace. At first the ballot seemed to go in favor of Hilary. That is, Lisa, Jose, Jason, Sean, Deidra, Charles, Joan, Alan, and Steve joined her in voting for a more communal government of children while Ryan, Kit, Viet, Linh, Brent, Tiffany, Heather, and Maria voted for parental government of children. Linh, however, requested John and Ursula be offered absentee ballots and sent Tiffany with slips of paper and pens. It took her only five minutes to return with two marked ballots.