But nothing was free, he went on. Watching the parents in the privacy of their bedrooms of a night, he’d been struck by the severity of their afflictions. They had fat stomachs and pendulous breasts. They had double asses—asses that stuck out, then sagged and bulged again. Protruding veins. Back fat like stacks of donuts. Red noses cratered by pores, black hair escaping from nostrils.
We were punished by middle age, then long decrepitude, said Terry mournfully. Our species—our demographic in the species, he amended—hung out way past its expiration date. It turned into litter, a scourge, a blight, a scab. An atrophied limb. That was our future role.
But we should shake it off, he added, suddenly trying to wrap up his speech with an inspiring takeaway. We should summon our courage! Our strength! Like Icarus, we should rise on feathered, shimmering wings and fly up, up, up toward the sun.
For a moment we considered this.
It sounded OK, but was devoid of content.
“You know it was his own fault the wings melted, right?” said David. “His father was a genius engineer. He told him not to fly too high or low. Too hot up high, too wet down low. Those wings were baller, man. Icarus totally ignored the specs. Basically, the kid was a dick.”
2
A SHOCK WHEN we reached the delta, with its braiding and shifting sandbars: unwelcome colonists had beached upon our shores.
Before, when we’d come down to the ocean, the dunes had been deserted except for birds and waving grasses. The waterfront had been ours to wander in peace, with its hermit crabs and driftwood and seaweed.
Now there were others. A barbecue. Meat was grilling, and the smell of it carried. There were beach parasols in bright red-and-white stripes.
Where had they come from? You could only get here by boat . . . yep: there it was. A majestic yacht in cream and gold was bobbing loftily offshore.
Up the beach, teens played volleyball.
We felt aggrieved but had no strategy. And no moral high ground, either. It was a public place.
The situation rankled.
If we were patient, though, the sun would soon go down and we’d be on our own. Meanwhile we set up our makeshift shelter on the other side of the braided waters—a pavilion with no walls and the threadbare tarps from the toolshed for a roof, their vinyl peeling off in ragged patches.
We tied the tarps to shrubs on the edge of the dunes, balanced them on fishing rods and ski poles. They wouldn’t bear much of a breeze. We had sleeping bags and folded-up clothes for pillows. But at least till dawn came, as the colonists dozed in their luxury berths, we’d have our private empire of salt water and sand.
We watched, munching on soggy sandwiches, as the barbecue-eaters folded their striped umbrellas. From the yacht, a purring and glossy powerboat came up into the shallows.
But hey! What was this?
Sailor types in white uniforms leapt out of the boat carrying bundles. In no time there were sleek-looking tents erected—high-end tents in pearly cream that matched the yacht, alpine-gear logos on the sides. Door flaps and rain flies. Four of them, neatly lined up. A small city above the high-tide mark.
We stared at those handsome tents.
The yacht kids hugged their parents goodnight, as we shuddered. The boat sputtered away. A small fire was built, around which they sat on matching camp chairs. Even their marshmallow sticks were manufactured—we saw them holding the metal skewers over their fire, roasting.
Fine, then. We’d have a fire also. A large bonfire. Our fire would dwarf their fire. It would be magnificent.
We’d brought logs from the woodpile and ancient copies of the New York Observer we’d found for kindling. Thanks to Rafe, a can of gasoline. (Marshmallows were for babies, right? Also, we didn’t have any.) Juicy had won the latest contest and brought an item to destroy, so we stacked up a glorious pile. I set his chosen object on the top of it: an antique wooden pig in a baby bonnet. With very long lashes.
Before long the flames were leaping high. Black smoke and acrid fumes, including gas and possibly lead paint, sailed downwind toward the yacht kids. It served them right, said Rafe. We cackled like witches over the blaze.
After a while headlamps came bobbing toward us. Yacht kids were wading manfully across the delta, barefoot and tanned, their shorts exactly the right length. Some of us stood up proudly. Others adopted more submissive postures.
“Hey, guys!” said the tall one in the lead. A sweep of blond hair fell over his brow. He wore a polo shirt. He was a billboard for Abercrombie & Fitch. “Dudes! What an awesome burn! I’ve got some weed. Anyone want a smoke?”
Grinning broadly.
“Shit yeah,” said Juice.
And so the empire crumbled.
AT THAT TIME in my personal life, I was coming to grips with the end of the world. The familiar world, anyway. Many of us were.
Scientists said it was ending now, philosophers said it had always been ending.
Historians said there’d been dark ages before. It all came out in the wash, because eventually, if you were patient, enlightenment arrived and then a wide array of Apple devices.
Politicians claimed everything would be fine. Adjustments were being made. Much as our human ingenuity had got us into this fine mess, so would it neatly get us out. Maybe more cars would switch to electric.
That was how we could tell it was serious. Because they were obviously lying.
We knew who was responsible, of course: it had been a done deal before we were born.
I wasn’t sure how to break it to Jack. He was a sensitive little guy, sweet-natured. Brimming with hope and fear. He often had nightmares, and I would comfort him when he woke up from them—dreams of hurt bunnies or friends being mean. He woke up whimpering “Bunny Bunny!” Or “Donny! Sam!”
The end of the world, I didn’t think he’d take it so well. But it was a Santa Claus situation. One day he’d find out the truth. And if it didn’t come from me, I’d end up looking like a politician.
The parents insisted on denial as a tactic. Not science denial exactly—they were liberals. It was more a denial of reality. A few had sent us to survival camps, where the fortunate learned to tie knots. Troubleshoot engines, even sterilize stagnant water without chemical filters.
But most of them had a simple attitude: business as usual.
Mine hid the truth from Jack. And he was already suspicious, because in second grade a teacher had leaked damning info about polar bears, sea ice melting. The sixth mass extinction. Jack also worried about penguins. He was a penguin fanatic—knew all the species and could rhyme them off in alphabetical order and draw them.
We needed to have a sit-down, him and me. But when?
I kept putting it off. The guy was only nine. He still couldn’t tell time on a clock that had hands.
Then came the yacht kids, with their medical marijuana and toned physiques. They all went to the same boarding school. And hailed from Southern California, Bel Air and Palos Verdes and the Palisades.
We soon saw it was different there.
“Your folks,” said the alpha male, stoned. They’d carried over their camp chairs: no sitting on towels for them. “They got a compound yet?”
“A compound?” asked Sukey, and took a drag. Held it in. She was sitting a bit too close to him, seemed to be basking in the Abercrombie aura. “You mean like—a pot-growing compound?”