I take in my surroundings. Crowds are still getting thicker, and things are vanishing from the shelves at an alarming rate. Even the sodas are gone now. Stupid! I should have grabbed some. I hurry back to my empty cart before someone else can take it. There’s no sign of Uncle Basil yet, and Garrett is probably off stuffing his face with something greasy. The Gatorade he requested is all gone, too.
Finally I spot Garrett. He’s down one of the frozen aisles, pizza sauce all over his face. He wipes his mouth with his shirt, knowing I’ll comment. But I don’t bother—because I see something. Just past the frozen vegetables and ice cream, there’s a chest packed with ice. Enormous bags of it. I can’t believe people are such limited thinkers that they haven’t thought of this themselves! Or maybe they have, but denied that they could possibly be so desperate. I open the door and reach for a bag.
“What are you doing? We need water, not ice.”
“Ice is water, Einstein,” I tell him. I go for a bag, and realize they’re a lot heavier than I had anticipated.
“Help me!” Together Garrett and I heave one bag of ice after another into our cart, until it’s piled as high as it can get. By now other people have taken notice, and have crowded the ice case, beginning to empty it.
The cart is ridiculously heavy now, and almost impossible to push—especially with a bad wheel. Then, as we struggle with the cart, the jammed wheel scraping across the concrete floor, a man in a business suit comes up behind us. He smiles.
“That’s quite a load there,” he says. “Looks like you could use some help.”
He doesn’t wait for us to answer before grabbing the cart’s handle, and wrestling it forward far more effectively than we did.
“Crazy here today,” he says jovially. “Crazy everywhere, I’ll bet.”
“Thank you for helping us,” I tell him.
“Not a problem. We all need to help one another.”
He smiles again, and I return the grin. It’s good to know that difficult times can bring out the best in people.
Bit by bit, with short but steady lurches, we get the cart to the front of the store, and into one of the snaking checkout lines.
“I suppose that’s my workout for the day,” he chuckles.
I look at our cart, and decide that one good turn deserves another. “Why don’t you take a bag of ice for yourself,” I suggest.
His smile doesn’t fade. “I have an even better idea,” he says. “Why don’t you take a bag of ice for yourselves, and I’ll keep the rest.”
For a moment I think he’s joking, but then realize he’s dead serious. “Excuse me?”
He manufactures a heavy sigh. “You’re right, that really wouldn’t be fair to you. Tell you what, why don’t we split it down the middle? I’ll take half, you take half.”
He says it like he’s being generous. As if the ice is his to give. He’s still smiling, but his eyes scare me.
“I think my offer is more than fair,” he says. I begin to wonder what business he’s in, and if it’s all about cheating people but making them think they’re not being cheated. It’s not going to fly with me—but his hands are firmly locked on the handle of our cart, and there’s nothing to prove that it’s ours and not his.
“Is there a problem here?”
It’s Uncle Basil. He’s arrived just in time. He glares at the man coldly for a moment, then the man takes his hands off the cart.
“Not at all,” he says.
“Good.” Uncle Basil says. “I’d hate to think you were harassing my niece and nephew. People get arrested for that.”
The man holds eye contact with our uncle for a moment more before folding. He looks at the ice, his expression bitter, then leaves, not taking as much as a single bag.
• • •
Uncle Basil’s pickup truck is parked illegally—halfway onto an island, having demolished a row of ficus. “Had to kick this sucker into four-wheel drive,” he says proudly—probably the first time he’s ever actually had to use it. Suddenly Uncle Basil’s midlife crisis truck is a blessing rather than an embarrassment.
We load the bags of ice into the truck bed. “How about that hot dog?” Uncle Basil offers, trying to lighten the mood.
“I’m full,” Garrett responds, even though I know that’s a nearly impossible feat for him. He just doesn’t want to go back inside. None of us do. And now there’s a small crowd that’s formed, watching us load the ice into the bed of the truck. Even though I try to ignore it, I know there’s a dozen eyes on us.
“Why don’t I ride in the truck bed with the ice?” I suggest.
“No, it’s okay,” Uncle Basil replies calmly. “Ride in the cab. Some nasty potholes on the way back. Wouldn’t want you to bounce around back there.”
“Right,” I agree as I hop into the cab of the pickup. And although no one speaks of it, I know it’s not potholes my uncle’s worried about.
• • •
We pull onto our street, but for some reason it doesn’t quite feel like the same block I grew up on. There’s this strangeness, like when you accidentally turn one street too early, and, because all of the cookie-cutter houses look the same, you feel as if you’re in a parallel universe. I try to shake the feeling as I watch the houses go by through the car window.
Our neighbors across the street, the Kiblers, usually lounge in their lawn chairs and “supervise” their kids as they play, which in reality means gossiping over glasses of chardonnay while making sure their children don’t get run over. However, today the Kibler kids play tag in the street without supervision. And even through the children’s laughter there’s this insidious silence that underscores everything; then again, maybe the silence was always there, and I’m only just noticing it now.
Uncle Basil backs the truck into the driveway and we get straight to unloading. Even with the sun getting low in the sky, it’s still ninety degrees, and the ice is already melting. If we’re going to get all of this ice inside in time, we’re going to need to hurry.
“Why don’t you go clean out the freezer so we can put some ice in it,” Uncle Basil says as he grabs the first bag from the truck bed. “The rest we can let melt and drink today.”
“Better yet, why don’t you clean the downstairs bathtub,” I tell Garret. “We’ll let it melt there.”
“Good idea,” says Basil, although Garrett’s not too keen on cleaning the tub.
Dad emerges from the garage, greasy wrench in hand, clearly still trying to squeeze water from the pipes. “Ice, huh?”
“They ran out of everything else,” I tell him, keeping it brief.
Dad scratches his head. “Should have gone to Sam’s Club,” he says. “They keep more items stocked in the back of the store.” Although Dad smiles it off, I can tell he’s a little more disturbed than he lets on. I think he knows that Sam’s Club has most likely been cleaned out of all of its bottled liquids, just like every other store.
Uncle Basil quickly changes the subject. “Thought you were going into the office today,” he says.
Dad shrugs and grabs a bag of ice. “Best thing about having your own business is that you don’t have to work Saturdays if you don’t want to.”
Except that Dad does work Saturdays. Some Sundays, too. A lot of people put in extra hours these days, considering how the price of produce has been rising—but even without that, Dad always told us that it takes a 24/7 commitment to build out a business. Yet apparently he’d rather haul ice than sell insurance today.
I pull more ice from the back of the truck, but find, even in a thick plastic bag, it’s hard to grip now that it’s starting to melt.
“Need some help?” says a voice from behind, and before turning around I know exactly who it is. Kelton McCracken. Your not-so-typical red-headed geek next door. Most kids of his strangeness are content killing zombies with an Xbox controller, but not Kelton. He prefers to spend his time practicing aerial reconnaissance with his drone, shooting critters with his paintball gun, and hiding in his tre
e house with a pair of night vision goggles, pretending to be Jason Bourne. It’s like he never matured past sixth grade, so his parents just bought him bigger and bigger toys. But today I can’t help but notice that there’s something different about him. Sure, he’s grown in this past year and looks a lot more mature—but it isn’t just that. It’s the way he holds himself. There’s a bounce in his step, as if this whole water crisis excites him in some sick way. Kelton smiles, revealing that his braces are off and his teeth have been wrangled artificially straight.
“Sure, Kelton, we could use some help,” says Dad. “Why don’t you give Alyssa a hand?”
I go to hand him the ice, but as I hold it out to him, something comes over me, and I can’t seem to let go of the bag.
Dad takes notice, confused by my hesitation. “Let him take the ice, Alyssa,” he says.
I look down to the ice in my hands and then back to Kelton, realizing I’m still skeptical about allowing people to “help.”
“Is there a problem?” Dad asks, in an intrusive, fatherly tone that demands an answer—which I don’t give.
I force myself to hand the ice over to Kelton. “Just don’t expect a bag for helping,” I tell him, which makes my father give me a stern look, probably wondering what would possess me to be so nasty about it. Maybe later I’ll tell him about that guy at Costco. Or maybe I’ll just try to forget it ever happened.
As for Kelton, I expect him to have a snotty comeback, but instead he just stands there, genuinely thrown by my comment. I regain my composure and force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look forced. “Sorry,” I tell him. “Thanks for helping.”
We go inside to set the ice in the bathtub, but Kelton grabs my shoulder to stop me.
“Have you sealed the drain?” he asks. “Not a good idea putting this ice in the tub unless you’ve sealed the drain. Even the tiniest leak and you’ll lose it all in a few hours.”
“I thought my uncle had done that,” I tell him, even though none of us would have thought of it. As much as I hate to admit it, that’s probably the smartest idea I’ve heard all day.
“I’ll go get you some caulking,” he says, and hurries off to retrieve the sealant from his garage, obviously happy for an opportunity to put his Boy Scout training into action.
Kelton and his reclusive family always seem to have a worst-case scenario plan for anything. Dad would sometimes joke that Mr. McCracken lived a double life, working as a dentist by day and preparing for the end of the world by night. But recently the joke is becoming all the more real. It seems Mr. McCracken now spends most of his time welding cast-iron contraptions late into the night, as if he were drilling into the cavity of the gaping monstrosity that is his garage.
Over the past few months Kelton’s family has assembled an over-the-top surveillance system, set up a mini greenhouse in their side yard, and lined their entire roof with some kind of unregistered, off-grid solar panels. Most recently, Kelton—who’s in far too many of my classes this year—is always bragging about how his father installed one-way bulletproof windows—bullets can shoot out from inside, but can’t penetrate from the outside. Even though the rest of our class thinks he’s completely full of it, I think it might be true. I wouldn’t put it past his father to do something like that.
Aside from our complaints about the late-night welding, our families are generally amicable, but there’s always been a sense of polite tension when my parents deal with them. We once shared an area of grass between our two houses, until Mr. McCracken installed a picket fence right through my mom’s prize-winning vermilliades. The fence was obnoxiously taller than your typical whitewashed suburban barrier, but just low enough not to technically violate the rules and regulations of the Homeowners Association—which they always seem to be at war with. Once, they even tried to lay claim to the curb in front of their house as their own private parking spot, insisting that their property line extended a few inches into the street—but the association won that battle. Ever since then, Uncle Basil makes a point to park his truck right in front of their house whenever he can, just to mess with them.
Kelton returns in a few minutes with the caulking and gets right to sealing the drain. “This might take a couple of hours to harden, so be careful when you pack the ice in,” he says, way more enthusiastic than someone ought to be about silicone sealant. There’s an uncomfortable silence between us that makes me realize that I’ve never actually spent time with Kelton one-on-one.
Then something occurs to me that’s not just a conversation filler, but something important. “Wait a second. Don’t you guys have a big water tank behind your house?”
“Thirty-five gallons,” Kelton brags, as he applies the caulking with the precision of a jeweler. “But that’s inside our house. The outside one’s for bodily waste, full of quaternary ammonium compound chemicals. You know, like that stinky blue soup at the bottom of a porta potty.”
“Yeah, I get it, Kelton,” I say, duly disgusted. “Well, I can’t say you guys didn’t think ahead.” Which is the understatement of the century.
“Well, as my dad always says, ‘We’d rather be wrong than dead wrong.’ ” Then he adds, “I bet if your dad just thought ahead too, you’d probably be better off.”
Kelton’s clearly not aware how insulting he can sound sometimes. I wonder if he ever won a merit badge for being Most Annoying.
Kelton finishes up the job. I thank him, and he heads back home to shoot his potato launcher, or dissect bugs, or whatever a kid like him does with his free time.
In the kitchen, my mom is scouring every surface with 409. Stress cleaning. When something’s out of your control, you bring order to the things you can. I get that. She’s never been the type, though, to leave the TV on as background noise—but she has it blasting in the family room. I’m not sure where my dad and uncle are. Maybe back working on his car. I find it odd that I feel I need to know.
On TV, CNN is focused on the continuing crisis of Hurricane Noah. I don’t begrudge those poor people the attention, but wish some of it would turn toward us, too.
“Any news about the Tap-Out?” I ask.
“One of the local stations has regular updates,” Mom tells me, “but it’s that brainless anchor I can’t stand. And besides, there’s nothing new.”
Even so, I switch to the brainless anchor, who my dad says got his start in porn, although I don’t want to ask him how he knows.
My mom’s right; they’re just showing the governor’s statement from this morning, and trying without success to spin it.
I switch back to the national news stations. CNN, then MSNBC, then Fox News, and back to CNN again. Every national broadcast is reporting on Noah, and only on Noah. Slowly it dawns on me why.
There’s no radar image for a water crisis.
No storm surges, no debris fields—the Tap-Out is as silent as cancer. There’s nothing to see, and so the news is treating it like a sidebar.
I mention this to my mom. She stops cleaning for a moment, and watches the crawl of secondary stories at the bottom of the screen. Finally something comes up: California water crisis deepens. Residents urged to conserve.
And that’s it. That’s all the national news says.
“Conserve? Are you kidding me?”
My mom takes a deep breath and sprays the kitchen table again. “As long as FEMA does its job, who care’s what the news says?”
“I care,” I tell her. Because if there’s one thing I know about the news, it’s that it decides for most people—including the federal government—what is and what isn’t important. But the big news stations won’t give the Tap-Out the critical airtime it needs—not until there are images that are as dramatic as winds taking off roofs.
And if it takes that long for the Tap-Out to be taken seriously, it will be too late.
* * *
SNAPSHOT: JOHN WAYNE
Dalton loves the way planes take off from John Wayne Airport. It’s a real trip. They call it a “modified noise abat
ement takeoff,” and it was specifically implemented to spare Newport Beach millionaires from having to deal with airport noise. Basically, the plane powers up on the runway with its brakes on, then accelerates at full force into a ridiculously steep takeoff, followed ten seconds later by a sudden leveling off and throttling down of the engines, which sounds, to the uninitiated, like engine failure, causing at least one person on every flight to gasp, or even scream in panic. The plane then coasts out over the back bay, Balboa Island, and the Newport Peninsula before the pilot pushes the engines back to full and resumes the climb-out.
“They oughta call it John Glenn instead of John Wayne,” Dalton once said—because taking off from there was the closest most people would ever get to blasting off into space.
Dalton and his younger sister are regular flyers, visiting their dad, who lives up in Portland, a few times a year—Christmas, Easter, most of the summer, and every other Thanksgiving. Today, however, it’s not just the two of them traveling north. Their mother is coming, too.
“If your dad won’t put me up, I’ll be happy to stay in a hotel,” she says.
“He won’t make you do that,” Dalton tells her, but she doesn’t seem too sure.
A few years back, Dalton’s mom had left him for a loser with nice pecs and a soul patch, who she subsequently kicked to the curb a year later. Live and learn. Anyway, when the marriage went south, his dad went north.
“You understand this is not about your father and me getting back together,” she tells Dalton and his sister, but for kids of divorce, hope springs eternal.
Within minutes of the Tap-Out, his mom had gone online and bought three overpriced tickets on Alaska Air—one of the few airlines that flies nonstop to Portland on a plane that you didn’t have to get out and push.
“Last three tickets,” she told them triumphantly. “You’ve got an hour to pack. Carry-ons only.”
The trip to the airport is bumper-to-bumper. What should be a fifteen-minute ride takes almost an hour.
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