We Are Unprepared (20 page)

“Hey, man,” Crow finally said. “You smoke?”

He pulled a battered tin box out of a drawer and began rolling a joint from the chair facing me.

“Yeah, sure.”

I wanted to sound casual, but the truth was that I hadn't smoked pot since I moved to Vermont. I didn't have anyone to buy it from and had lost that sixth sense of youth that enables one to detect a weed dealer from a great distance. It was decriminalized in most states, so it wouldn't have been particularly difficult or risky to find it; I just hadn't been sufficiently motivated to do so.

Crow passed me a skinny little twig of a joint and I took a long hit.

“Thanks,” I said.

He nodded silently. There was a reverent, almost ceremonial air in the bunker, as if we were engaging in a religious sacrament. I waited for Crow to break the silence out of respect for whatever was going on.

“Nobody understands pot anymore,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “How do you mean?”

He was leaning back in his chair now, pensively watching the smoke that swirled around his face.

“What I mean is, nobody smokes pot for the right reasons anymore. I see these kids walking around town, high off their asses, but they're just playing video games and talking on their phones. That's not how you appreciate pot. It's a gift from Mother Nature, man. It should be smoked out here in the woods. That's where the vibration really hits you. That's what it's about.”

I thought of the vibrations Peg had spoken of. This was a surprising dissertation coming from Crow, who seemed driven by such cynical, practical concerns.

“Nature is the only true order,” he went on. “All the rest of this is nonsense. But we're trying to rape and murder nature as best we can while we're here—that's for sure.”

I nodded. It was a strong sentiment, but difficult to disagree with. We passed the joint back and forth for another silent moment.

“You know why I got those rifles?” Crow pointed to three long hunting rifles mounted on the ceiling above the makeshift sink. I hadn't noticed them before.

“It's not for hunting,” he said. “I have no stomach for hunting. Can live on rice and beans if I have to. I got 'em because I don't trust the people. Nature makes sense to me; I can trust it. But not the people.”

I wasn't sure if the turn in our conversation should disturb me, but I decided to steer things away from weaponry.

“So is all this because you can't trust anyone?” I asked, waving my arm around the bunker.

“No, man.” Crow shook his head. “This is because it feels good to be in control. Shit's out of control and the only antidote to that is self-reliance. It feels good to be able to rely on your own hard work, and smarts. And what else are you going to do—just wait around for the end? No way; you gotta do something just to stay sane.”

This seemed an utterly rational explanation for an end-of-days bunker and I nodded emphatically as Crow preached.

“Plus it's awesome,” I added, feeling very stoned all of a sudden.

“It
is
awesome!”

The visit had taken such a pleasant turn that my high brain never wanted to leave. I wanted to sit on Crow's couch and talk about the meaning of things for hours. I didn't want to bring up the dredging that was planned for his backyard or the devastating flooding that he could be responsible for if he didn't consent to it. Still, I knew I couldn't leave without saying something about it.

“That's kind of what the runoff plan is all about,” I ventured. “We can't really control what's going to happen to us, but it's a proactive thing to focus on, and something that will seriously minimize the pain. So why not, right?”

Crow considered this argument while he sucked on the remaining stub of the joint. He nodded slightly. “I'll think about it.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“I don't know, but I'll think about it,” Crow said again.

This development was more than enough for me, so I smiled and left all talk of the runoff plan behind us. There wasn't anything else I could possibly say in my altered state that would improve the progress already made.

Feeling festive, Crow took out his little tin box again and rolled another joint, which he was forced to smoke on his own as I was pressing up against the outer limits of my own tolerance. We drank water from a plastic jug and Crow told me about the nearby spring he got all his drinking water from (“not yet poisoned by humans”). It really did taste like the most delicious water I had ever had.

I wanted to know more about the little shelter we were in, so I asked Crow to walk me through the logistics. He explained the challenges associated with building one's own outhouse; I interrupted regularly with technical questions that he was happy to address. We talked about ventilation and insulation and waste disposal. Then we discussed possibilities for enhanced security and long-term food storage. Crow's mind worked like my own; he dived deep into the science, clinging to the known facts and exiting with new information. We were two happy, stoned nerds.

I don't know how long I was at Crow's house, but it was late enough to fall into bed as soon as I got home. I was tired and satisfied with the progress I had made in bringing Crow to our side. I was also a little giddy about our budding friendship. I never doubted that his new openness to the runoff plan was sincere.

EIGHTEEN

“I THINK HE'S
going to come around,” I explained to Peg, Salty, Bill and Bob as we sat around the table in Salty's office the following Monday.

The Subcommittee had begun meeting on an almost daily basis in an effort to capitalize on the warm weather and wrap up our runoff plan quickly, before anyone changed their mind again. (We were all still under the impression then that The Storm might not come at all.) Thanks to the aggressive lobbying of the other members, including bribes of Bob's wife's apple cake and cords of wood, we had collected nearly all of the necessary signatures to begin digging. The only holdouts were Crow and one of his prepper acquaintances down the road. Crow still hadn't committed to the plan and seemed to be avoiding my calls. During the one conversation we did have by phone, he said that he needed more time.

“Can you pay him another visit tonight?” Peg asked.

I pressed my lips together. “I don't want to pressure him,” I said. “That will have the reverse effect. I think he's trying to demonstrate that it's his decision to make. He can't feel strong-armed. He needs to come to this himself.”

“I don't think we've got time for that,” Salty said.

Everyone at the table was looking at me, waiting for me to fix it. Without all the signatures, nothing could get done.

I nodded. “I will call him tomorrow. I'll get his temperature on the whole thing, and if there's a way to nudge him along, I'll do it.”

I didn't understand what the holdup was. Crow seemed genuinely open to the plan during my visit. I was embarrassed to have not brought this across the finish line yet for my fellow Subcommittee members, but I was also a little hurt for being misled by Crow. It really seemed as though we had connected during my visit.

Still, the group seemed satisfied by my promise and moved on to other business.

“Salty, anything you need from us on the Isole Festival?” Bill asked.

“Right, the festival,” Salty said, turning to a new set of notes. “As you all know, the Isole Festival is scheduled for this Saturday and I think it's going to be exactly what this town needs. I'm running the Festival Committee and we've got a great lineup of vendors, performers and activities. We had to make some tweaks this year to account for the unseasonably warm weather. So, instead of the youth cross-country ski races, we'll be doing potato sack races, though it might be a little muddy. And we'll have pony rides instead of sleigh rides. I'll need some extra trucks for hauling chairs, cones, that sort of thing in advance. So, Bill and Bob—if you don't mind donating your time for that, it would be much appreciated. Peg, I know you've got a school obligation that day; we'll miss you, but it's no problem. And, Ash, I was wondering if you might be able to donate a few spare hours to designing signage for the festival. We need banners for Main Street and the floats, signs for the ice sculpture competition and flyers to paste around town. I can handle all the printing—we just need your creative skills for the image itself. Would you mind?”

“Of course not,” I said. Since Pia went to Connecticut two days before, I had reclaimed my routine. I was catching up with work responsibilities and eager for new challenges.

“Great, thank you. I think this is really what Isole needs,” Salty repeated. “It will be a huge boost to morale and, of course, to the local economy. Things will really get back to normal after this.”

It was as if the decision to hold the festival had negated any chance of a superstorm. There was no longer a doubt in the minds of Isole's optimists: the festival was on and The Storm was off. There was still doubt elsewhere, though. For one thing, the official prediction from the National Weather Service had the likelihood of no superstorm at 70 percent, which were good odds, but not great. And there were plenty of others around town, like Pia, who simply didn't believe anything that came from the authorities. At the food co-op the day before, a young man ahead of me in line explained that this was part of a right-wing political conspiracy to “keep the people afraid,” and that as soon as we got complacent again, “they” would invent a new fake storm to rally around. Still, most of us were so relieved by the news that life would return to normal that we simply chose to believe it. I was among those people.

With the improved weather projections, I realized that I had been mistaken in thinking we were divided by our approach to catastrophe preparation. That wasn't what divided us. It was our attachment to the promise of catastrophe that divided us. Some, like Pia, clung to that promise. They wanted The Storm to be real. I once heard a Hollywood producer talking about why we love end-of-days predictions—the rapture, the Mayan calendar's end, zombie apocalypse and the like. He said that it gives us permission to enjoy life more if we think it's ending soon. We might work less, love more, eat dessert—that sort of thing. But he couldn't have been more wrong. That's not at all what people do in the face of a real threat. Instead, they cling to the values that have dictated their lives all along; they dig in. The worriers obsess, and the workaholics drown themselves in work to avoid thinking, and the racists blame everything on a different tribe and the elitists cling tighter to the stuff that sets them apart from the masses. No one gets better or reaches a higher state of consciousness. We're not capable as a species of that sort of transformation. I will never understand the allure of the apocalypse. Nothing seemed improved under its threat; everyone became a worse version of themselves.

Do Not Be Lulled into a False Sense of Safety.

That was the warning printed across a flyer that sat on my doorstep that evening. It was the newsletter of The Survivalists & Preppers of the Northeast Kingdom, and it came each month, hand delivered, not mailed or emailed, but delivered door-to-door by a nice lady in a beat-up minivan with two children strapped in the backseat. Pia was still away, so the prepper mom left it that day under a small rock on our welcome mat. I was reminded that we hadn't spoken by phone since Pia left, which was new for us. Still, I didn't feel eager to call.

I picked up the tri-fold and sat down under the porch light and clear sky. Its layout was impressive, neatly organized on glossy stock with professional photos. According to the address on the back corner, it was produced at some sort of prepper association headquarters in Michigan. There was a brief article about the militarization of our domestic police forces. Beside that was an instructional for canning your own tuna. It had the breezy commercial tone of a brochure one might see stacked at a coffee shop advertising a nearby community college or local tourist attraction. Folded within it was a cheap printout from the Northeast Kingdom affiliate group. Apparently, a meeting was scheduled for that night in the basement of the Elks Club.

I swatted a mosquito from my ankle and stared at the hand-drawn map of the meeting location. It was starting in fifteen minutes. I could be there in twenty if I ran to Peg's to ask for her car and drove fast. I didn't want to attend another prepper meeting, but it would be a chance to corner Crow and get an answer out of him about the runoff plan. He would be on his own turf and maybe my presence would suggest a spirit of mutual compromise, I reasoned. Plus it would be my only opportunity to do it without Pia around. It was her turf, too.

With nothing to lose, I ran inside to grab a sweater and two granola bars before jogging down the road to knock on Peg's door. She agreed immediately, impressed by my commitment to the project.

“Maybe you'll learn something!” she joked as I sprang down her porch stairs toward the car.

I drove quickly, arriving ten minutes late. When I walked in through the heavy doors, the group was already sitting in a circle of chairs. Several people turned to look at me, and I nodded as if it was the most natural thing in the world for me to be there. Three times as many people as I'd seen at the last meeting were there, and the crowd looked more like the general population of Isole than the small collection of misfits from before. There was a young couple I recognized as regulars from the Blue Frog bar, the pregnant woman who lived up the road, August's parents and many others I didn't know who appeared to be perfectly normal locals. It looked like Isole itself, which seemed significant.

Crow was once again at the center of the circle. He was speaking authoritatively on the merits of natural insulation methods as I found a seat. My chair scraped the floor disruptively and Crow looked up. We locked eyes briefly without any acknowledgment of each other before he went on with his point about clay-coated straw. I knew he had been avoiding me, but this was colder than I'd expected. Still, I reminded myself that he was busy. Maybe it meant nothing at all.

When Crow concluded, he introduced a new face to the group as “a professor of history and a friend of our work.”

A neat man in his early sixties stood and greeted the crowd with a warm smile. He wore an expensive sweater-vest over a soft midsection, trim khakis and brown leather shoes. His well-groomed beard reminded me that I had been neglecting my own scruffy beard in recent weeks. The group watched patiently as he rolled up his shirtsleeves and thanked Crow for the introduction.

“Great to be here, Crow,” he said. “My name is Gabe Brownstein, and I'm a history professor at the University of Vermont with a focus on the Great Depression. I'm here today to talk about the lessons we learned—or should have learned—from hard times, and some of the relevant parallels for our lives today. In this era of economic uncertainty and threatening weather events, now is a good time to revisit our history.”

Several people nodded in agreement. The crowd was intrigued; I was, too. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and straining to catch everything the professor said as he turned back and forth to engage the entire room.

“It's not hyperbole to suggest that our economy today is as fragile as it was in the late 1920s,” the professor began. “It's certainly more volatile, more leveraged and more top-heavy. Indeed, one could argue that it's
more
fragile than it was then. Now, I'm not saying that it's all going to crash tomorrow and you should start stashing your savings under the mattress. But there are ways for individuals and communities to boost their financial resilience in the face of such fragility.”

The room was rapt. To my great surprise, this prepper meeting really was useful.

Professor Brownstein put a finger in the air to indicate that an important point was coming. “Rule number one—get off credit. Debt is the enemy of financial resilience and the surest way to find yourself at the mercy of other people and institutions. If you're paying for your life with credit now, stop doing that. If you've got debt weighing you down, make paying it off a priority. It's the hardest but most important thing you will learn here today. When the last great depression hit, credit was unavailable to most people, so our entire society had to learn to live on whatever they could afford with the money they already had. It's a foreign concept to us now, but we should get reacquainted with it... Are there any questions so far?”

An older man in the front row raised his hand.

“Yes, sir?”

“What does this have to do with being a survivalist?”

The professor smiled patiently. “It's a great question,” he said, “and it has everything to do with being a survivalist. You want to rely on yourself? You need to start by getting financially independent. Maybe you want to get off the grid? Bug out? Great, you'll need to disentangle yourself from financial obligations first.”

The man with the question looked at Crow now. “I thought we were going to talk about ammunition storage tonight,” he said.

Several people shook their heads in frustration.

The younger woman I recognized jumped in. “I want to hear what Professor Gabe has to say. I thought we had settled this: we're not a militia group.”

Three or four others nodded in agreement and the professor looked around the room for a sign that he should go on.

“Well, what kind of group are we, then?” the first questioner asked.

“We're just here to share ideas,” Crow said. “We're just here to help each other out in our preparations.”

He looked around for a response. Crow had seemed so antisocial to me when we first met, but it was becoming clear that he had an astute ability to manage a range of personalities. He was a leader.

“No, it's more than that,” the husband of the young woman said. “I think we're a political organization.” Several people grumbled as he went on, “Not like Republicans or Democrats. I mean, we're here to organize around some principles that deserve protecting; things like the right to privacy and the need to resist the encroachment of government into our lives.”

“Sounds like libertarianism,” someone said.

“I'm not a libertarian!” another shouted.

“Call it whatever you want,” the man went on. “I think this is a place to rally around a cause. We need to talk more about protecting our families in spite of government inaction and protecting them
from
government action...like organizing to say ‘no' to letting the town of Isole dig holes through our backyards. We can't just be about water purification and food storage. We should have a guiding purpose.”

That set off a spirited discussion about the identity of the group, but I didn't hear any of it. They've talked about the runoff plan, I thought to myself. That was what the young man was referring to. They were banding together to rally against it. It didn't make any sense to me. I smoked with Crow in his bunker in a spirit of mutual respect. It really seemed as though we were getting somewhere. But maybe he never had any intention of agreeing to the digging. He was just saying those things so we could have a pleasant night and a friendly smoke. And, as I was learning, he knew how to manage people.