Sunvault: Stories of Solarpunk and Eco-Speculation

by Phoebe Wagner

  “So to recap—we’ve gone over the total mileage on your father’s current vehicle, the previous vehicles he’s owned, and the energy consumption and resource use here at his home.” She glanced around the old place again. “The fact that your father owned a property of this size and lived alone for the last fifteen years will count against him, as well as things like not investing in personal solar panels. However, behavior like using energy-efficient lightbulbs and hanging his clothes to dry will offset some of that.”

  “Little things like that? Bonus.” Pop had only used those bulbs because they were cheaper and hung his clothes out of a habit established by Mom, before she passed.

  “Little things have a surprisingly large effect,” Ms. Flynn said without looking up. “Of course, the age of the property is problematic, specifically with regard to things like heat and insulation. What was your father’s diet like?”

  “What’s the best answer here?”

  Ms. Flynn frowned. “The honest one.”

  Gabe crossed his arms over his leather jacket as he laughed. “Let’s just say that if Pop ate a fistful of somethin’ green over the course of the day, we’d call that a win.”

  “Meat and potatoes sort of person?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Lots of beef?”

  “Made a wicked steak on the grill out back. Old family recipe for the marinade.” Ms. Flynn tapped on her tablet, and Gabe asked, “Uh, that bad?”

  “Cattle are particularly bad for the environment. They use approximately twenty-eight times more land than chickens and considerably more water. And they contribute more to emissions than gasoline-powered cars—approximately fifteen percent of the global total. Beef is terrible for the planet, I’m afraid.”

  Gabe blinked. She had rattled that off without taking her eyes off of him. “You know all that off the top of your head?”

  “It’s my job, Mr. Cameron,” she said. “I suppose if I chose any song by Eric Clapton or Joan Jett, you’d be able to recite the lyrics in full.”

  “So you know some names, at least?”

  “A few. They were legends in their time, after all. Just not my taste.”

  Gabe’s brow furrowed. “What exactly is your taste, darlin’?”

  Ms. Flynn rubbed at the side of her nose. “Some Top 40, but mostly jazz.”

  “A jazz girl. . . .” Gabe mused. “Huh. Never been much for that. Good melody, but not enough . . . oomph.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Ms. Flynn said, not quite sounding defensive. “There can be as much emotion in the wail of a saxophone as the plucking of a guitar.”

  “Hmm. Guess so.” Gabe eyed his guitar, which he’d leaned against the doorway leading to the living room. I look at the world and I notice it’s turning. “I could demonstrate some, if you like. Been a while since I put on a show.”

  For the first time that day, a smile with some actual feeling crossed her lips. Gabe liked to think he could write a ballad about any woman’s smile, and Ms. Flynn was no exception. He was disappointed, though, when she said, “Maybe later.”

  “Girl’s all business. Okay,” Gabe said, drawing out the “o” as he stretched in his chair. He wasn’t used to sitting and talking about something for this long that didn’t have chords to go along with it. His fingers were starting to itch for his guitar strings and his feet for the sides of his Harley. That hog was probably going to set his finances back when his turn came, he realized. Not that there would be anyone to worry about it on his behalf—just the state.

  “There are a few other small items we can get out of the way right now.” Ms. Flynn flicked at her tablet again. “Did your father tend to buy new clothes regularly?”

  “Wore the same shirts every week ‘til they were nothin’ but holes.”

  “Personal electronics?”

  “Just the flatscreen upstairs, I think. Wasn’t much for fancy gadgets like yours.”

  “And he used it often?”

  Gabe shrugged. “Liked his stories. Mostly went to the bar to watch things with his crowd. Place around the corner.” He perked up a little. “Hey, that’s probably good, right? Sharin’ a tube instead of turnin’ one on for himself.”

  Ms. Flynn nodded. “You’re catching on, I see.”

  “Not just a pretty face,” Gabe said. He dropped his stage smile when she didn’t look up from her tablet.

  “Did he replace items very often? Furniture or tools, for example?”

  Gabe gestured at the dining room set and the nearby sofas. “Most of the stuff around here comes from when Jesus wore short pants. Pop would rather fix somethin’ than replace it.”

  “And he held onto a fair bit of personal property.”

  For a moment, Gabe pictured the basement and then the garage; they were both crammed full of things that his dad likely hadn’t touched in years. Both were somewhere between a treasure trove and a cleaning service’s nightmare.

  “Yeah, he liked his stuff. Mainly since Mom died.”

  “And he didn’t contribute to any environmental initiatives, correct? Donating to new technology firms, attending demonstrations, volunteer work?”

  Gabe just shook his head. He was still thinking about the basement, hoping that they wouldn’t need to discuss it any further.

  Naturally, Ms. Flynn said, “The last thing we need to go over in detail, then, is the possessions your father left behind.”

  Drain the pressure from the swelling, the sensation’s overwhelming. Gabe’s fingers started twitching again, recalling the couple of shows he played with Billie Joe and the boys, during their reunion/comeback tour a little while back.

  “Look,” he said softly, “Pop wasn’t entirely okay after mom died. He got by, but with me on the road . . . he needed to keep busy. He’d already been collectin’ stuff, so—”

  “Gabe.” He looked up at Ms. Flynn. “I’m not here to judge, remember? From everything you’ve told me and what I’ve seen in these files, your father was a remarkable man. My job here is to assign a Carbon Footprint Tax to your father’s estate—not your father. Okay?”

  He let out a breath and his fingers stopped twitching. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” She turned the tablet to show him the pictures she had taken earlier. Shelving lined his dad’s garage, packed with cardboard boxes and plastic tubs that had gradually flowed in stacks across the ground. Each of them was labeled and contained a particular type of screw or bolt that Pop would turn to when he was repairing something around the house. The pictures from the basement showed a similar set-up, except that these boxes held album covers, stacks upon stacks of records, old concert tees, and memorabilia from shows going back fifty years or more. Gabe knew that some items from his own tours were stored down there, too—boxes of programs never handed out, retro EPs never bought but which his dad insisted on keeping. The most important mementos of Gabe’s career were strategically placed around the house, though, away from the piles of old Rolling Stone.

  “Part of an individual’s carbon footprint,” Ms. Flynn said as she swiped through pictures, “is the amount of physical material that is discarded when they pass away. Anything that can be recycled or repurposed has a much lighter effect. Anything that can’t be, however. . . .”

  “Jacks up the price?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Makes sense. So what’s the damage here?”

  Ms. Flynn sighed. She turned the tablet away again to consult it. “Some of the hardware in the garage can be melted down and repurposed,” she said, “but a lot of it will end up in scrapyards, and not all of these will be authorized treatment facilities, unfortunately. The records and collectibles downstairs . . . historically would have ended up in places like antique shops. Let’s just say there’s far more supply than demand these days. There’s going to be a hefty tax there.”

  “Someone else could use that stuff, right?”

  “Not a lot of people own record players these days, Mr. Cameron. The problem here is
that these items exist—materials were used to create things like posters and vinyl records, and those materials will end up in a landfill sooner or later.”

  Gabe grunted. He had never been one for owning a lot of things; he hadn’t spent much time at home back when he was touring. His condo downtown was sparse, but he had his fair share of things that, he supposed, would get thrown out someday: his awards and gold-plated LPs, walls of photos from concerts and big events, signed T-shirts that he had never intended to wear.

  He glanced at his guitar. Even now, it traveled around in the trunk of his car or on the back of his Harley, as though he was Bon Jovi’s cowboy from “Wanted Dead or Alive.” It wasn’t particularly flashy—yellow-and-red coloring, flame-maple top, and a sunburst finish—but he maintained it with only original parts and tried to keep it from scratching or denting when he was jamming on stage. That guitar, to him, was a work of art. He didn’t want it to end up in the back of some antique shop or in a landfill.

  “All right, darlin’. What’s the final number?”

  Ms. Flynn finished entering information into her tablet; she had a good poker face, and he tried not to fidget. When she turned the tablet toward him again, he let out a long, low whistle.

  “I know it seems high. . . .”

  Gabe managed a chuckle. “Seems?”

  “Do you have a financial advisor who can help you with this?”

  “Yeah, this won’t be anythin’ new for him. It’s not like I’ve been flush the last few years.”

  “There are payment plans available if. . . .”

  Ms. Flynn trailed off as Gabe stood up. He rolled his shoulders, savoring the sound of his leather jacket creaking, and twitched his fingers to the chords of his second big hit, “That Time You Spent the Night.” His dad had always said that was one of his greatest songs, even after half-a-dozen others topped the charts.

  He wandered into the living room. Over a low bookshelf that mostly held Mom’s old novels, Pop had erected a sort of shrine, a wall of framed photos from Gabe’s various concerts and public appearances. His parents made it to at least one concert every time he toured, sometimes more, and Pop had kept up the tradition of taking a photo each time and adding it to the wall.

  “Can I ask you a question, darlin’?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s your first name, anyway?”

  There was a slight pause. “Beth.”

  “Really?” Gabe’s grin seemed to confuse her. He shook his head and hummed another tune. Beth, I hear you callin’, but I can’t come home right now.

  There was a fading photograph in the center of the collection. It was a selfie—though Pop would never have called it that—of him and Mom at the Radio City Music Hall, when Gabe and his band had opened for AC/DC. That had been one of their first big shows, and his parents had insisted on driving for a day so they could be there. Gabe tried not to let the fact that they were gone now sour the memory—not just his parents, but Angus and Brian, and folks like Gibbons and Debbie and Michael Lee. Everyone who had inspired him, back when he and the band were making a name for themselves.

  Of course, the band was gone, too. First Toby, their drummer, died in that car accident. Then his husband, Everett, their bass guitarist, got tired of doing it alone and walked away. In the eight years since, Gabe had planned on getting them back together, even just for one night; not just for himself or even for the boys, but so that Pop could see him perform one more time.

  I think I can hear you calling.

  Ms. Flynn had gone back to her tablet, probably finishing up her report. She jumped when Gabe set his guitar down on the dining room table.

  “Here.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “This’ll cover that footprint tax of yours,” Gabe said. “And then some, dependin’ on who I sell it to.”

  Ms. Flynn stared at the instrument. “A guitar?”

  Gabe grinned. “Not just a guitar. 1959 Gibson Les Paul Standard. Original pieces and kept in great condition by yours truly. Even if my name wasn’t attached to it, any idea how much this would go for?”

  Ms. Flynn shook her head.

  “Lots. Especially when people see the signature on the back, from the guy that gave it to me.”

  “Who?”

  “Billy . . . Billy Gibbons,” he added, but she just stared at him blankly. “Never mind, darlin’.”

  As he sat back down, Ms. Flynn said, “To be honest, most people don’t respond this well to the news I give them.”

  “Gave up on lettin’ things like money get me down the second time I went bankrupt,” Gabe said. “Besides, it’s not like I need that thing anymore.”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

  Gabe waved a hand at her. “Knew goin’ in I’d fade eventually.”

  Ms. Flynn fiddled with her tablet. “In that case, there is one other thing that will need to be settled: how you’ll be handling your father’s remains.”

  “Am I still allowed to bury him?”

  “Yes, but. . . .” Ms. Flynn winced a little. “There is a heavy cost associated with that these days, due to regulations.”

  “Go figure,” Gabe said with a chuckle. He pointed at the guitar. “There should be enough left over from that to cover it.” Another tune came to mind, and he leaned toward her. “Tell me, Ms. Banker—won’t you bury my papa for me?”

  You and Me and the Deep Dark Sea

  Jess Barber

  Liam returns home to Oceanside on a warm southern California evening, three years and two months after leaving it, thinking it was going to be forever.

  Of course, Tara’s apartment is the first place he goes.

  The apartment complex looks abandoned, unsurprisingly. It’s too close to the ocean, a malevolent glint not a hundred meters away. There’s one balcony with a clothesline strung across it, towels limp in the lack of breeze, and a few children’s toys scattered over the concrete, but nobody comes out to interrogate Liam when he drops his pack on the ground next to Tara’s front door. That’s okay. He has no real desire to meet the neighbors.

  His key still works, which is good, because he sold his lockpick kit somewhere in New Mexico, one of the first in a long line of personal items he shed like scales along the southwestern border, and he never got very good at picking locks without it. Hell, he never got very good at picking locks with it.

  Not like Tara was.

  The interior of the apartment has been stripped bare. Of course it has, but just because it’s expected doesn’t mean it hurts any less. Doors dangle open on the cheap laminate cupboards, and there are indentations in the carpet from where the furniture sat. The drywall has irregular holes punched in it where somebody’s stripped out all the copper wire. Liam allows himself a moment of nostalgia, coloring in ghosts to fill the place: Tara stretched long on a bare mattress in the middle of the floor, dangling a book over her face, laughing, summer sunlight streaming in through the blinds.

  The door to her bedroom is shut. He makes himself cross over to it, shove it open. Empty, of course, and that should be that, except he’s hit with a bright gut-shot of pain, has to brace his shoulder against the door frame to keep from buckling. “God, what am I doing,” he asks himself, and he doesn’t know, hasn’t known since he pulled himself ashore in what used to be New Orleans, lungs full of brackish water, right side of his body a lacerated mess, alone.

  He backs up into the living room, closing her bedroom door as he goes.

  Blanket down at the bottom of his backpack, fished out and spread over the scratchy industrial carpet. A few of his dwindling supply of ibuprofen, swallowed down dry. Gun within easy reach. Liam stuffs his backpack underneath his head and wills himself to sleep.

  §

  He wakes up to the sound of somebody rattling the doorknob.

  It’s full daylight outside, the sun pouring through the bare windows, baking the room stiflingly hot. Liam rolls to his feet as quietly as he can, wiping sweat from his eyes and grabbing th
e gun as he goes, heart thudding a frantic tattoo in his chest. He spent weeks waking in a panic, after, certain he was being followed, certain he had been found out, but after a month of nothing he started to grow complacent. You dumbass, he thinks, and trains his gun on the door.

  The knob clicks. The door swings open, and Liam, stunned, lets the gun drop to his side. “Ale?”

  Ale looks different than the last time, thinner, sharper, but the same in essentials, down-turned mouth and inked forearms. Ale stares at him for a second, stunned. Then: “You motherfucker,” he says and punches Liam in the mouth.

  Liam has known Ale since they were both ten years old. In that space of seventeen years, Ale has punched Liam in the face more times than Liam can count. Most of them, Liam has probably deserved. This is the first time it’s taken him to the ground.

  To be fair, it’s not the punch itself. It’s Liam’s attempt to dodge, an instinctive motion that puts too much weight on his bad leg, which crumples underneath him. Liam’s still got the gun in his hand, so he can’t even catch himself properly out of fear of landing on the thing, so he hits the ground, hard, on his hip, vision whiting out in a sparkling burst of pain.

  Liam manages to get the gun up and pointed in Ale’s general direction, though he can’t focus well enough to aim properly. Doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t actually shoot Ale—he wouldn’t—he’s just hoping the gun is enough of a deterrent to keep Ale from hitting him again. He isn’t sure he’d be able to take it.

  His vision finally clears enough to focus on Ale, held at a distance by the gun, fingers twitching like they want to form fists and mouth flickering towards a frown. Liam raises his free hand in a gesture of surrender. “Could you maybe not do that again?” he asks. “I’m not as spry as I used to be.”

  “Liam,” Ale bites out. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Liam figures that’s as good as he’s gonna get and lowers the gun, commencing the arduous climb to his feet. “I could ask you the same thing,” he grunts, settling himself unsteadily upright. “Since when do you have keys to Tara’s apartment?”