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David Gates

Jernigan

Thanks to Dave Friedman for computer expertise, to Marjorie Horvitz for stern copy editing and to Garth Battista for making everything easy.

Thanks to Dolly Fried’s Possum Living, regrettably out of print, for its account of suburban survivalism.

And thanks to those who have taught me, believed in me and saved my bacon: Sam Seibert, Patrick McKiernan, David Spry, Douglass Paige, J. D. O’Hara, Madeleine Edmondson, Meredith White, Sarah Crichton, Amanda Urban and Gary Fisketjon. And especially to Gene and Helen Gates, to Ann and to Elizabeth. And to Susan.

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I ended up driving all night. The snow eased off after a while — or, more likely, I’d driven past the edge of the storm — and I just kept going. Stopped for gas where you get off the interstate, then followed the state highway on up through the woods and through the open lands and through the empty little towns as it began to get light. Church steeples. The first human, in a red plaid jacket, bending over to scrape his windshield, blowing out clouds of breath in early-morning sun. Two more towns to go. Then, in the center of the second town, a left at the church and up that road for probably five miles. And at what must have been eight or nine o’clock I finally got to the place where you turn off the town road to get down to Uncle Fred’s camp. Just a gap between fenceposts. Blinding sun by now; this absolutely blue sky and snow all around. And so silent when I turned the engine off. This was as far as I could take the car: they hadn’t plowed down to where the camp was. So I just pulled as far over to the side of the road as I could, passenger door scraping against the snowbank.

And I thought, Before it snows again you better get a carlength of that track cleared so you can pull in there off the road. Otherwise, next time the plow comes through here, I don’t know, no need to finish the thought.

My God it was cold when I opened that car door. Inch or so of gin left in the bottle, but then I thought No, save that for when you get the stove going and the trailer good and warm. I’d finished all but that last inch on the way up. Just drinking to keep drinking: it didn’t make me any drunker. Or I guess any less drunk either. It wasn’t supposed to be a good idea to be drunk and out in the cold, that was a common misconception. I mean, the misconception was that it kept you warm. Just hoped to hell there was some wood, and some paper to get it going, and maybe something lying around for kindling so I wouldn’t have to try splitting logs in this kind of shape. Provided they hadn’t stolen the God damn woodstove out of there too. Get that stove going and wash down about four five more Pamprins with the last of that gin, boy, and sleep the sleep of the just.

Now if only Danny had come along — I’d practically got down on my fucking knees — he could’ve been carving out that carlength of snow while old Dad was humping the wood inside and building the fire and getting the trailer warmed up for him to come in to. Heating up a can of beans if there was a can of beans. See, I would have had him sleep most of the way up, and then he could have stayed awake to feed the fire while old Dad took his rest. But, of course, stayed awake to do what? Oh, practice his guitar for a while, I suppose. Playing it through his Rockman so as not to wake old Dad. Well, fine, okay, but after a couple hours of that? So it might’ve been just as well.