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The Space between Atoms 33

 “Hagrid, you know.  I think everyone goes by nickname.  We don’t ask about nobody’s past.  Another rule.  Some people tell, and that’s okay.  Askin’s not.  Oh, an’ there’s a signal for privacy here.”  She went to a rusty mailbox missing its door.  She raised the flag.  “Occupied.  Put it down when ya come out.  The guys all respect that.

Terah felt odd, being introduced around.  Until he’d met Lindsey he’d been on his own for months, and as an adjunct professor nobody really cares who you are.  The clear, cold weather had continued.  The first house they came to housed Moby.  He didn’t look like a white whale at all, but he was surprisingly literary.  “Talkin’ to him’s like readin’ a book,” Lindsey explained.  

Moby had been a teacher who’d fallen on budget cuts and come off scarred.  A small man, he wore glasses and his skin was a pleasant shade of brown.  Beards, as Terah surmised, were the norm.  “I started a little free library,” Moby said.  “Not all the guys take to novels, but if you want to read one, feel free to take it.  We don’t get many contributions, being light travelers by nature, but when I go for supplies, I know where all the other little free libraries are.”

When they headed to the next house Terah asked, “Are all these guys educated?”

Lindsey kept her eyes ahead.  “Who does society say it doesn’t need?  I’m the odd one here, the only one who doesn’t have a, well, Dickinsheet.  This is Queequeg’s place.  He’s a CPA.”

The colony turned out to be like a humanities convention.  Cicero had been a classicist.  Beethoven a musician.  Vince an artist.  Rumi a poet.  “For me,” Lindsey commented, “this is civilization.  Out there all they want is money and sex.”

“Too bad we don’t have any funding,” Terah said.  “We could almost form our own humanities department.”

Lindsey gave him a hard look.  “An’ how long would it be before it became corrupt?”

“Good point.  I still find myself thinking higher education is intended to be equitable and just.  It’s rife with politics.  You know, when I was an adjunct I found out just about everyone in academia has family connections or is owed a favor by someone.  Those in powerhouse positions—like the Ivy League—pull the strings.  Those guys at Harvard barely have to publish, just churn out disciples.  I saw a guy at retirement age melt down in tears when his Harvard advisor, who’d been there far too long, cranking out cookies shaped just like himself, died.  Like one man alone should be able to dominate a field of inquiry.

“The problem is,” he reflected, “how else can we educate the masses?  If we don’t have accreditation anybody can claim to be an expert.”

“It smacks of privilege,” Lindsey said, coming up to yet another house.  “This one’s called Mr. Hooper’s Store.  Everything’s free.  Like I said, no questions asked, but don’t take advantage a the system.  You got some stuff to contribute?”

Inside it was naturally cool.  Dry goods and cans were neatly arranged.  Unopened jars were rarer, but some represented.  Terah felt a bit of regret emptying out his pack.  A sense of ownership had settled in since he’d moved into the asylum.  A couple of the dry goods had been with him even before that.  “Who organizes all this?  Who’s the Mr. Hooper?”

“Nobody’s in charge.  I’m tellin’ ya, when money’s not at issue people treat each other good.  All these guys,” she said with a sweeping gesture, “have lost everything.  Talk about changin’ yer perspective.  Even I lost the little I had.”

Terah began to understand Lindsey’s attraction to the place.  He wondered what Lindsey had lost.

“So, where should I call home?” he asked.  “And question two: what becomes of the waste?”

“Follow me.”  They stepped outside.  “The next house up the hill is open.  But yer question about waste shows how the system got its hook in ya.  Let’s take a look at yer new home.”

This house was in better repair, but in surprising ways.  “It ain’t up to code, but it’s insulated with the plastic packin’ from dry goods boxes, and boxes themselves.”  

Terah looked around in amazement.  “They reuse all the packaging?”

“Ya throw it away cause yer taught to.  Cardboard’s perfectly functional.  And when there’s a bad hole in the roof,” she led him outside, and pointed to the shingles.  They consisted of overlapping flattened tin cans.  “Makes an interestin’ sound when it’s rainin’, but they help keep the water off ya.  There’s a layer of plastic bags beneath.”

“Not exactly permanent, but then what is?”  Terah wondered.

“When somebody’s house is needin’ repair, we all chip in.  We throw nothing away.  Any ‘garbage’ is washed so the mice ain’t too tempted, and when its dried, we find some way to use it.  Stop in Vince’s some time.  Ya won’t believe the art he’s made of plastic pull rings and lids.”





“And the authorities don’t come and raid this place?”

“We got no money.  Yeah, most of the stuff in Hooper’s probably ain’t strictly legally obtained, but then the prices ya pay aren’t really fair either.”

“I do think five dollars is a lot for a loaf of bread,” Terah said.  “I’m old enough to remember when the same loaf, only a little bigger, cost less than one.  And cost of living increases don’t keep up with inflation.  Almost never.  Somebody’s getting richer off the system, though.”

“Now ya see.  We’re no threat to ‘em, so the authorities don’t bother us.  It’s like when ya visit someone who works at Pizza Hut and they bring the leftovers home at the end of the day.  Our country’s based on people throwin’ away perfectly good stuff.”

“I never was a very good capitalist,” Terah mused.  He felt a warm glow, exchanging free thoughts with Lindsey.  But it wasn’t to last.

“We can’t hang out together, Cal,” Lindsey said.  “This place only works when nobody’s jealous a anybody else.  Dickinsheet works but there’s one thing these guys ain’t got, and nobody’s gettin’ it from me.”

“But I’ll see you around?”

“At the gatherin’.  After sundown.  Ya can’t miss it.”  With that she turned and walked away, leaving Terah strangely alone in paradise.

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