This job was not one she had wanted, but she had to make some money. She was losing weight and could no longer buy gas for her car even at the new low prices. It was simple enough to do what was wanted, or so she thought when she signed up. This zillionaire had a warehouse-sized hoard of outdated military rations meant for combat. He had managed to sell the government the idea that they should buy them and then pay him to distribute them to needy people.
So there she was with a little red wagon labeled "Frequent Flyer" and loaded with packets of theoretical food. At least there was no way it could have been contaminated by this plague. It was old stuff but didn't go back to the "Spanish" flu. Taking the wagon down a sidewalk where the homeless people had invented shelters was not her idea. She had almost no mental picture of who was there or what it was like.
At least the weather was decent.
The smell was horrific. Slowly she realized that the little piles on the pavement were not from dogs. But it was surprising how many dogs seemed to live with these people. Some dogs poked their heads out from under the tarps, old drapes, and stained camp tents but few barked. No people were about. Just parked wire shopping baskets stolen from grocery stores and piled high with junk.
All the people were inside. It took her a while to realize that there was no place to knock and that calling out politely didn't work. Soon she just pushed the K-ration packets through whatever seemed like a door. Usually the clue was the smear of dirt from people going through. Once in a while a hand on the other side would grab the package. Once a voice said "thank you."
Sometimes she could hear movement inside or creaking as the framework was pushed against. Some seemed to be empty. From the smell she suspected there was someone dead inside. Once she thought she heard a baby crying. If there were more than one person inside, they might talk softly to each other, but sometimes the language was not English.
An old lady had fallen inside her shelter in a way that thrust her head outside on the pavement. She was muttering, her glasses all crooked, her white hair on end. She was much more at risk than others, but it wasn't just the virus that would kill her.
A young man had no shelter except the blanket around him, but he was gripping a smart phone and talking to someone. Maybe he would leave, find help.
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From the Author:
I've driven down streets where these little hooches are up against the buildings but I've never looked inside or talked to the people. I'm wondering where to take this little essay from here. Should I try to inspire people? Should I shout "curse God and die!" Should I go historical and compare to a camp of indigenous people dying of smallpox?
Should I talk about K-rations in terms of the "war on poverty" and the basics of staying alive? We're all Kommandos now. What are K rations really like?
"K was short for "Kommando" (as elite troops were the first to receive it), the letter "K" was selected because it was phonetically distinct from other letter-name rations.' They were designed for short-term use, when the more complete A and B rations were not available."
Here's a YouTube explanation of what was in the packets.
Should I try to invent what really ought to be in a survival packet the government could give out to people or contrast it with dumpster diving behind some fast food joint? Maybe I should describe some desperate old degenerate who bursts out and demands alcohol or a young person who wants drugs.
What if the distributor looks inside one because she hears a child crying and sees a little kid with the corpse of his mother. Who should she call? Would they come?
But this approach -- poverty and horror -- doesn't address the nature of this lung-infecting virus that suffocates the vulnerable with no concern for socioeconomics. In fact, it is the upper middle class conviction that travel is a perk and an an entitlement that drives these masses of airport people. Nothing will keep kids from spring break on some beach in Mexico where they can trade germs by sharing weed and vaping, lowering their resistance to germs by neglecting sleep and drinking booze. If they went there by now, the virus waiting period will be over just about April Fool's Day.
What can break through this denial of everything but money? Maybe the fall of the stock market, the failure of airlines, the raw economic disaster of a system that depends on basic assumptions that money will make a person safe and beautiful, forever young.
I recommend "Rattle.com" which is an online mag now addressing the pandemic. The perennial "Indian" Sherman Alexie is included.
"The Russell" auction on Charlie Russell's birthday (March 19) every year is postponed indefinitely. It had already diminished quite a bit. Maybe this is the end. Another economic disaster for some.
The gig economy that was going to make free-lancers of us all, including college professors, has now collapsed with no government bailout. The Repub solution is mostly to remove the safety net of our society. They have destroyed their own party. McConnell is only a criminal like many others.
The truth is that I'm living just the way I've lived for the last twenty years, mostly isolated, stock-piling food, an endangered obsolete sort of person who insists on writing risky stuff. It was what I wanted to do, But it wouldn't be right for a lot of people. And it's a good thing that it will soon be spring, even in the Rockies.
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