Tom rides his bike to Washington Square and stops there for a rest and another simple meal.
You know what I miss eating the most? Hostess Twinkies. They would melt in my mouth and all the way down. They were some of the last baked goods I could get. Amazing shelf life for a baked good. I found a whole big box of them on my way to the Big Apple here. It was in the back of a convenience store. There were dozens and dozens … but only three packages were good. I ate them on the spot, and they were the last.
He looks at us as if he’s going to ask an improper question.
You wouldn’t happen to have Twinkies where you come from?
He quickly raises his hand.
Don’t answer that! You’re a mirage. You’d just mock me, then disappear. And I’m afraid I’d rather have you around as company.
He goes back to eating.
Suddenly, he’s very alert. He goes quietly to the bike and gets out the .22, settles in at the bench again, rests his elbows on it to steady his aim at what looks to be just a bunch of bushes, and waits … and waits … and finally fires a single shot. After the shot, he keeps looking through the sight for about ten seconds. Then he grins and gets excited. He puts the gun down carefully, but literally dashes over to the bushes and pulls out a woodchuck he has shot.
He’s grinning as he comes back. He holds up his catch for us to admire.
I’ve had my eye on this one for six months now. How’s he’s grown! I’ve seen three litters he’s sired, too. I won’t lack for meat from his family! When the woodchucks first moved in here the rats gave them a hard time, but now they’re thriving.
He looks at us again.
Nowadays, I’m back to my camp food diet. I hunt here in Washington Square and cook what I catch. He admires the woodchuck again. Yeah, nice and fat … a couple days’ meat on him.
He puts the woodchuck and the rifle back on the bike and continues his story.
The monastery was a place for contemplation, so for the three days before what I considered the inevitable crisis I’d contemplated where I would go next.
One thing was clear. I would have to drive, risky as that might be. So I called Joe at the Bait Shop and told him I would be back and pick up my car sometime over the next week, so not to call the cops.
I took the road back to town at early dawn on Sunday, hoping to avoid any proselytizing surprises, and stopped in the first rest area with a decent Wi-Fi connection. I spent two hours on my PDA researching ideas I’d come up with at the monastery. I was trying to find any kind of group that would survive this kind of catastrophe. I looked up survival groups, religious orders, and even crazy cults. I was trying to find out who would stay out of touch and not get afflicted with this contagion. I recognized, of course, that any group having an Internet presence had a huge strike against it already, but I had to start somewhere.
When I took breaks from Internet researching, I called people. The first nine were believers. I was dumb enough to ask the first one if she could think of a group that was possibly not believing. She said, “Yeah, that survivalist family on the mountain,” and in the next breath muttered, “Ummm, we should send someone up there.” I didn’t make that mistake again.
I finally reached a non-believer. He was sympathetic, but he wouldn’t tell me a thing. He said, “You were lucky to reach me at all. This is the last call I’m taking. I’m headed for a place like that now. I’m not going to tell you any more because you will turn it in when you become a believer. Sorry.” And he hung up.
It was not what I wanted to hear. I cursed him when he hung up on me, cursed him hard, up and down. I really, really needed help. But now I understand his thinking. And … sadly, he was right to treat me so.
Fate then dealt me a big favor. I was looking up, thinking, when a shabby decades-old microbus drove by with a big ‘Jesus’ crudely spray painted on the side with a small ‘Sucks Eggs’ underneath.
I followed it and scared the driver half-to-death as I flashed my lights and tried to get it to stop.
“You don’t believe?” I shouted across to him when he finally did stop.
“No, dude, what’s it to you?” He was clearly worried, expecting harassment.
“I don’t either. I’m looking for a place to stay,’ I said.
He smiled, relaxed. “Follow me, dude.”
When you’re in half-way-to-nowhere land there aren’t many roads. We drove past the Trappist monastery and kept on going.
Further up the road was a neo-hippie commune, living in a rather nice lakeside cabin. The driveway was well-graded and there was a fairly large parking area. The microbus stopped next to two other vehicles, one old and shabby like the bus, the other even newer than my SUV.
The leader of the commune came out to the driveway. He was tall, bearded, long-haired, and wearing a new, expensive exercise outfit.
He frowned when he saw my car and me, a stranger.
The driver of the microbus hopped out and ran up to him saying, “He’s cool, he’s cool.”
I got out and waited at my SUV for the leader to make a decision.
While he was deciding, I saw three women get out of the bus. Two were in their twenties and wearing the movie-stereotype hippy look, over-dressed with lots of beads and fringe, plus a lot of makeup to make them appear wide-eyed and innocent. The third girl was a teenager wearing a sweater, jeans, and tennis shoes, with her hands tied behind her. The other two helped her out and quickly led her into the cabin. She had one moment to look around and I saw her face. In that moment I liked what I saw, a lot, but I could see she didn’t look happy.
The leader and the driver walked up to me. The driver was clearly a follower.
The leader said, “I am John Plentiful, and this is the Good to Mother Earth Commune. How can we help you?”
“Do you believe in this new Jesus?” I asked.
“No. We believe in the Sky God and the Earth Goddess. We believe in being good to Mother Earth. Some call us pagans.”
“Good. I’m seeking a place to live where I won’t be forced to believe in this new Jesus. Mind if I stay here a while?”
The leader scowled a bit and said, “This … New Jesus, as you call him, is a manifestation of The Man. We fight The Man because he desecrates Mother Earth. Are you willing to join our cause and fight The Man?”
I was speechless for a moment. I am … I was at that time, anyway … pretty solidly a “The Man” type myself. I had a good job, and I liked my toys.
“ … I would like to find out more,” I said.
John Plentiful looked around as if his mind had gone temporarily elsewhere, looked back, and said, “In these strange times, that is sufficient. Jimmy, give this aspirant a meal and show him around.” John Plentiful went off to supervise the unloading of the microbus.
Jimmy walked up and offered his hand. “I’m Jimmy Crack Corn, pleased to meet you.”
I smiled, offered mine, and said, “I’m Tom … the Piper’s Son, and pleased to meet you.”
He smiled back and led me into the cabin, talking all the way. “We’ve been together about fifteen years now. We got started at Harvard University. John Plentiful was studying earth science and law. He was trying to live an alternate lifestyle, but he got disillusioned—The Man was constantly getting in his way.”
“What did The Man do?” I asked.
Jimmy hedged, “Oh … I wasn’t there at that time. But John Plentiful says that when he talked to others about being kind to Mother Earth, The Man shut him down.”
“At Harvard?” I asked.
Jimmy nodded with great assurance. I decided discretion was the better part of getting a meal and a place to stay. I didn’t question more. I simply nodded knowingly and Jimmy went on.
His story was a mix of fifty percent inconsistency and fifty percent urban legend. La-La Land sounded quite rational compared to what I heard Jimmy spouting. If these were flower children, the flower was locoweed.
The cabin itself was large and nicely furnished. But the inside was a mess. It was being lived in but no one was cleaning up. As we walked in, I was assaulted by a chemical stench.
Jimmy said, “We’re living off the land.”
“Was that ‘the land’ or ‘The Man’?” I replied.
Jimmy thought, then laughed. “Good one.”
As we ate, I looked around at the tumbled up interior, and asked Jimmy, “What do you do here?”
“Oh … we stick it to The Man in many ways. The girls do tricks and I destroy his mind by selling the meth we make.
“But lately times have gotten tough. When people turn to Jesus, this new one, they usually swear off the drugs and women for a while. For a while … we’re waiting out the storm now.”
“Have any started coming back?”
His face soured. “Damn few, so far. And to make matters worse, I’m hearing that the governments of the world are legalizing pot. They say they’re heeding Jesus’ call to respect all our fellow men and women.” He sighed. “We may have to change our bag of tricks.”
Then he brightened up. “We’re having a party here tonight. There are still a few folks around who know how to have a good time.”
*******
The party idea was interesting. I could network with non-believers. But my hopes were dashed. The party that night was impressively repulsive. For me, it was sex, drugs, and rock and roll in a nightmare. By Hour Three there were thirty-some people trashing the house, there were drinks spilled, drugs spilled, blood spilled, and the drug haze was so thick you could cut it. It had become an end-of-the-world party and promised to go until dawn, or beyond.
By Hour One I had noticed the tied up girl was not in attendance and in Hour Three I decided to look for her. I wandered the rooms. Many were filled with more sex-and-drug orgyists who didn’t care when I looked in. I got invited to join a couple times.
The last room on the second floor was locked. I broke the door open, and sure enough, there she was on the bed, tape gagged with wrists and ankles tied.
She wasn’t struggling, and when I came in she rolled over to face me.
God! She was young and good-looking. I guessed … hoped … a high school senior. Average in height with straight auburn hair in twin braids which would reach to the nipples on her breasts, sweater and jeans over a slim flexible body, no makeup to speak of.
She watched me from behind that tape gag as I came over and gently sat on her bed. Her eyes were clear and calm. I helped her get into a sitting position beside me; she was comfortable with that. I moved my hand to touch her face.…
A shadow filled the doorway. A gruff voice, full of warning said, “Hol’ up there, dude! She ain’t ready, an’ when she is, ah gits her fust!”
The hulking silhouette screamed bouncer; the beer in one hand and the other on the doorsill for steadying himself screamed stoned out of his mind.
I snapped. My heart rate tripled as I stood up and faced him. I hunched over a bit, ready for a fight. “She isn’t anyone’s,” I said calmly.
He threw the beer at me first, then rushed me. In that tight environment it was amazing how well jujitsu worked. My hands went to his chest where his lapels should have been if he was any sort of gentleman, and lapels-or-no they helped me slide by him. He continued on full bore … right out the window!
My first instinct was to laugh. This was right out of The Three Stooges. But it was real. So instead, I hoisted the girl on my shoulder and quickly ran down the back stairs and out to my car. The partiers were so deep into their partying haze that no one noticed the fall or our escape.
The girl waited patiently in the passenger seat while I drove like a madman to get us away. Twenty minutes later, near the edge of town, I pulled into a dark field, stopped under the trees on the far side, turned out the lights, and waited. She didn’t seem to mind the gag, and it ensured that she wouldn’t give us away by shouting.
Five minutes later, when things had stayed quiet, I pulled the tape gag off and ordered her, “Tell me about yourself.”
“I’m Amy Pantridge. My uncle owns that cabin. Those people told me that they would keep me safe if I showed them where the cabin was.”
“Are you a believer?”
She looked me full face and said, “No, and I don’t want to be. Are you?”
I answered her by kissing her, long and hard. Gratifyingly, she didn’t hesitate to lean into it. When we came up for air, we knew we were kindred spirits.
As she told me more, I touched her, massaged her. She didn’t mind that I took a while to get the ropes off. She enjoyed it when I fondled her breasts and we started kissing again. I sure enjoyed it, too. It’s the romantic encounter I remember most vividly to this day.
I’m not a “do it in the car” type guy, so we took a huge risk and stayed at a motel that night. We both knew it was risky. We both decided that for what we had going now it was a risk worth taking. The risk paid off. We talked, cuddled, made love, talked, cuddled, made love … and somehow managed to get out by dawn.
God, I was beat as we drove out! I didn’t drive for long. We found a nearby nearly overgrown logging road and stopped there to sleep in the back of the SUV for half a day.
After the nap we got started again slowly. We talked some more. I’d already learned that Amy was a freshman at Dartmouth. She was admitted a year early, which in a way validated my judgment that she was a high school senior. She was going to major in physics.
“I have no need for faith-based belief systems,” she told me now. “I’m training myself to see the world around me as it really is.”
“Is this new Jesus part of the real world?” I asked her.
“ … He is. But the belief he inspires is not. It’s something taking over a person’s mind.”
We talked about where to go. Amy suggested going back to the house to see what condition it was in. It sounded crazy to me but I agreed to try. We found it empty. It was totally trashed, but empty.
“Those kind of people don’t stay in one place very long,” commented Amy.
She called her uncle and reported that the house had been trashed.
“He’s going to get it fixed up right away, he says. It was only built last year and he has insurance, so ‘it should be quick.’ I would guess that means in a month.”
We visited her uncle, Mike Pantridge. He was a retired university professor of physics who’d had a distinguished career and now lived on a small farm.
We sat on his porch, enjoying a view of farm fields surrounded by meadows and woods. We made some small talk, then explained what happened at the cabin. We told him how we were trying to keep our free will and how dangerous and difficult that was becoming.
He nodded his head, and then said, “Oh yes. I’m a believer. This Jesus is real.” He smiled widely, then frowned.
“But I recognize that my believing is strange, so strange. Like you two, I was raised on the scientific method. My head tells me, ‘Extraordinary claims need extraordinary proof’. And this Jesus offers nothing extraordinary but his ability to get people to believe him. We’ve seen no videos of this ‘Heaven’ he talks of. No human has gone through a portal and come back to give a report. He has performed no miracles other than to get billions of people to believe in him … I know all this … and I still believe!”
He shook his head. “I’m a traitor to my own belief system. … I know this, but I still believe. It’s sad … and scary.”
He looked up and smiled at us. “And this is why I’m willing to help you two.” His glance grew skeptical. “Even though it’s a pretty odd match, and your story of love at first sight would normally be something for a comedy movie. But these are strange times.
“I want you to succeed. I have failed; my heart rules me now, But in my head, I still want free will to win. I want you two to win.
“I will help. But keep in mind that I’m a believer. My heart is telling me to take you two inside and turn on the TV. It won’t take but a moment, and you two will be as happy as I am. … That’s what my heart is telling me.
“So watch out for me. I could easily betray you. Any moment of weakness may make that happen.
“In the meantime, I’ll get that cabin fixed. I’ll have them add a security system and a panic room.”
I said, “If I may suggest, have that security system capable of broadcasting a Jesus message around the house. From what I can tell, bandits who get converted aren’t going to bother us.”
“Good idea,” said my now-Uncle Mike.