Water Wars Chapter Four

 

Ok, so Janie isn’t a sit on the hillside and watch the romantic sunset kind of girl, I realize. I suppose I knew that already. We walk among the dead. We are both hot and sweaty and starving. I want more to eat than the cans of beans Felix gave me, but I’ll take them.

We settled into a spot of a few stones, most about three feet tall, arranged in a semi-circle. I read the names and dates of birth and death. Death seems to be an underlying theme that runs through everyone’s life these days. The debate and struggle seems to be: are we for it or against it? There was a time I’d fight like a junkyard dog to save this life. Now, these days, I’m not quite so sure. Jane has already expressed her ambivalence. It’s hard to argue with her. Life is bleak and very hard.

I kneel and touch the headstones. Brushing away some gray lichen with my fingernail I trace the old letters cut deep into the granite. The last names on the stones are all the same, a few of the first names too. Fathers and sons, I assume. It must be a family burial ground. We are surrounded by a small grove of pine trees, now dead. Timber for the first spark to blow this way. After the fire that raged back at the apartment, it feels everything is tinder. A dropped cigarette could ignite everything right down to the coastline. I learned today ain’t nobody coming to put it out either. That may be the hardest take from the lessons of the past months and weeks. The reality has sunk into me; it took me longer than Jane. I’m not sure why, but the reality is, we are all on our own. It’s not like the local government has vanished. We hear stories they are still in place, sometimes we still hear sirens, but they are going in a direction away from us. Their focus and priority is not people like me, or Jane, or Felix.

Looking around at the dust dry grasses, I say to Jane, “I’m not sure building a fire is the best idea. It could spread and engulf us and draw attention.”

Janie is done. I can sense it. She’s beyond tired, even beyond exhausted. She is done.

“What the fuck, Sammy, you mean to tell me you’re so chicken-shit you’re afraid of some boogie man coming and stealing all your worldly possessions? Or what, killing us and taking our fucking beans? What difference does it make?”

I’ve had enough too. “Fuck you Jane, seriously fuck you. I’m doing everything I can think of to save you from your own misery and get you back together with your kids and maybe, just maybe get you to a manageable life, and all I get in return is your fucking rage, like this was done to you. We are all fucked equally, Janie. This new world we live in is an equal opportunity fuck job.”

Screaming and crying and spitting and clawing, she comes at me. I’m about to be the brunt of the years of rage and anger and broken promises and lies that are my friend Jane.

Her dirty fingernails cut the skin of my arms as I try to push her away. It’s like she’s charged with high voltage electricity. Every muscle in her skinny frame is firing at once. Her hands pummel my chest. Finally, I’m able to grab her wrists and I bring her into me and hold her close. She begins to wail in a primal, earthy, guttural scream. Her screams echo off the headstones and out to the Pacific.

“He promised,” she screams through sobs, “He promised, my daddy, he promised he’d always take care of me. When I was little and my world went to shit, he promised!”

Holding her still, I whisper in her ear, “All the promises have been broken now, Jane. We’re on our own. We get to and we’ve got to choose how the rest of our life plays out. We can both choose to end it here and now—right now—I’ll kill you right here and then I’ll unload this 9mm in my skull, that’s option one, or we try to hang on another day, another hour, that’s option two… What’s it going to be Janie?”

Looking to the ocean and what’s left of the sunset, a bit of pastel yellow colors the edge of the skyline just above the water. Behind us, looking up, I see a big full moon rising. It’s summer, the days are long. I used to love this time of year; it was warm during the day and cool at night and the long days felt like a reward for surviving the drudge of winter. Now, it’s hot all the time. It’s not even humid anymore. Just hot, all day, every day. Part of me wants to live to see another day, part of me hopes Janie chooses option one. It feels like either choice is ok.

In the distance, coming at us, I see a shadow moving. It’s a man, looks like a big man, tall, a silhouette. I think of our water and beans. I pull the 9mm from the back of my denim shorts; the barrel is wet from my sweaty ass. Without aiming, I fire a warning shot. I tell myself that anyway. I realize I’m not much of a marksman, never was. The moving shadow stops and yells, “Stop shooting! I mean no harm! As he gets closer, about fifteen feet away, Janie yells out, “Jesus, is that you?”

I’m convinced now she’s lost her mind, then the shadow answers back, “Yes, it’s me, Jesús!”

At this point I’m thinking, oh good, Jesus is coming, maybe I’m already dead…

Jane stands to greet the stranger. She introduces him to me, “Sammy, this is Jesús, everyone in the neighborhood called him Black Jesus. You don’t know him?”

In the evening’s hazy dusk and moonlight, I struggle to make out his facial features. Finally, I recognize him. He’s a man I’ve seen around, older than me, tall, thin. I guess we’re all pretty thin these days. Finally I speak, “Oh yeah, I know you. I never was one much for going to church. You had that Church storefront over in the strip mall on Washington Street, out by Route 11. You had church there on Saturday and Sundays, right?”

Black Jesus looks at both of us and says, “I wish people would call me Jesús, that’s my name. My mom was from Puerto Rico. And the whole Black Jesus thing… man, Jesus—the genuine prophet from the Bible—was middle eastern, definitely not a blue-eyed, flowing brown-haired, white boy. The only people who ever called me Black Jesus were you white folks, anyway. It didn’t bother me much then when shit mattered. It bothers me less now.”

I ask him to sit and join us. Janie offers him some water from one of the gallon jugs. “A sip, Jesus, just a sip…” he takes the bottle, swallows a mouthful, and hands it back to her. She takes a small drink and passes it to me. I take a drink and make a note where the water line is on the gallon jug.

Jesús asks, “What’s your plan here in the cemetery? Did you come here planning to die? Save some steps at the end?”

I answer, “I’m meeting a guy in the morning. He promises me a hook-up to all the water we need.” Turning to Jesús somewhat, I add, “Sorry about shooting at you, man…”

Jesús looks at the ground. A sadness comes over his voice. “I get it man, we’ve all turned savage.”

I have to ask, “So, what happened to your church? You used to have a hell of a following. I remember sometimes you’d have your services out in the parking lot. It looked a little too sweaty for me.”

His elbows on his knees and his head in palms, he mumbles into his hands, “I lost my faith, man. It all came apart, hard. I kept trying to not listen to the voices of truth in my head. I wasn’t listening to my truth. I was up there at the dais, telling people to follow Jesus and know Jesus in their hearts. I didn’t know Jesus, I didn’t even know myself, I didn’t believe in anything.

“I’m no scammer, man, no conman. One day, not long after this drought started, there was a shooting outside my church. People were looting the bodega next to my store. This guy, an older Spanish guy, he blasts all over the place with a shotgun. This kid fires on him with a pistol. Hits the old guy right in the chest. The kids, the looters, they took off. I run over to the old man. I’m asking him if he wants me to pray with him, or I can pray for him.

“He looks up at me—he’s bleeding bad man—I’m yelling for someone to call 911, he grabs my hand, and he says to me, ‘We both know no one is coming to this neighborhood, and I don’t want or need any of your bullshit prayer.’ I ask him, isn’t he afraid to die? He says of course he is afraid, so I tell him I can bring him to god there’s still time. He reaches out for my hand and tells me to stop. He says ‘I’ve lived all my life without subscribing to your god, I’ll be damned if I’ll start now.’

“I say to him, ‘you’ve decided to take your chances?’ and he says to me, ‘I’ve lived my life not kneeling to your god, or anyone’s god. Do you think now, right here at the end, I’m all of the sudden going to change my mind and start crying and praying? Nah, man, whatever is coming, bring it. I’ve always been grounded in my beliefs. Nothing weaker than a man, standing at the edge of the grave tossing away all he believes because he’s scared. You can sit here with me as I die. That would be a very kind thing for you to do. Will you do me that kindness?’

“All I could offer was, of course…

“I sat there on that hot blacktop and I held his hand until he took his last breath. I thought the guy must have been one of the bravest men I ever met. Right or wrong, he wasn’t to be denied the peace and courage of what he believed to be true.”

Jane ask, “Jesus, what are you doing hiding out in this graveyard?”

He sits closer to Jane, as if he’s about to share a great secret. “When it started to get bad, but water and food could still be bought, people were sneaking in here and digging up the graves and stealing the jewelry. I don’t much care one way or the other about jewels, but desecrating the dead that crosses a line for me.”

Pointing with his outstretched arm, he says, “I’ve got myself a pretty nice camp up there on that far hill. I’ve been getting water and some food from the crazy dude and his gang. I saw you and Sammy down here; I thought you might be robbing. Not much of that going on anymore. Money seems pretty worthless around here, anyway.”

“Gang?” I ask. “You mean a Hispanic dude, thinks he’s a revolutionary?”

Jesús replies, “Oh, so you know Felix too?” We both manage a laugh. “He’s been keeping me in water and he throws me a few cans of corn or beans now and then. His family, his mom and dad and his abuela are buried up there by my camp. Felix keeps me supplied and I keep the assholes away from grandma. To be honest, I think that is coming to an end too. You two are first I’ve seen in here for a couple of weeks.”

Janie comments, “Why haven’t the cops taken care of any of this? Where are the fucking cops? They should care about grave robbing. Our whole block was on fire when we left.” She pauses. “Look over to the left. You can still see the glow. A couple of city blocks are on fire, and you don’t even hear a siren! Where are the cops? We heard about the National Guard. Where are they?”

Another look crosses Jesús’ face. I’m not quite if it’s anger, sadness or defeat. I don’t know this guy. He’s Jane’s buddy, not mine. Knowing Jane, I’m sure she fucked him somewhere in the past. I’m not sure though. He don’t seem her type, but I’m sure a preacher held a special challenge for her, a notch on her odd little belt. The girl likes to keep things interesting; I’ll give her that. Janie is a lot of things, boring ain’t ever been one of them.

Jesús again speaks. “We’ve all lost so much. My faith has been on the slide for a long time. It always felt like a song in my head I couldn’t quite hear, muffled… or a voice that was trying to speak to me I could not understand. I’m not sure. Some people’s faith is strong and well grounded. I admire them. Mine was a show, fake and full of holes like those TV peachers. I used to watch those guys. They were me. I was a con too.

“There are places, like way down in LA, where people, people with money, still have water and food. It’s better down in south Mexico and up north. We seem to be an isolated island here now. The cops and the National Guard are focused on keeping people like us out of the cities. More people add more stress and demand. Border crossings are hard. The Mexicans and the Canadians don’t want us. It’s the line, Sam, the poverty line. It’s stopped raining, and the heat came in and everything dried up and that line caught up to you and Jane. The reality of the haves and have-nots caught up to you guys. Now, you are here with the rest of us. The poverty line is always moving up and down, but for now, maybe for good, it’s moved way past you.

“I’ve always managed to live a step or two ahead. I did ok with the dollars from the collection plate. I knew I was just expanding on a story that had been sold and rehashed for two-thousand years. When everything around here was collapsing, I knew I had faith to sell. I’d tell people to keep faith, the lord would provide. When people got nothing left, they can still find a dollar to buy favor with their Jesus. Your reward will come, brother, pass the plate. Even when it was apparent resources were being diverted away from us, to the wealthier, the powerful, my people still had a dollar or two for my story of hope.

“Maybe in my defense, even if I was a con, I was giving people something to hold on to, a glimmer of hope. I mean, even false hope is something to grasp as you slide down the hole, right? Maybe for that I should go a little lighter on myself.

“My dad, he was with the Black Panthers in Oakland in the 60s. He knew all about how close and fragile that poverty line was. He was arrested, many times, finally given a choice of prison or the Army. He chose the Army. He got his ass blown the fuck up around March 1968, Hue Province, Vietnam. The Panthers, they took me and my mom in. I was a baby, one or two years old. They protected us like family, they cared for us. I took a lot of who I am from them. Then my mom, she got lost to the drugs, heroin, she was broken after my dad died. I was talking about my dad to his brother, Charlie, years later, years after dad was killed. Uncle Charlie said, ‘The saddest thing about America is mom and apple pie and baseball never sent a man to war. Ain’t nobody’s Uncle Sam ever sent nobody to war, man. Senators and Presidents and gun and bomb and helicopter manufacturers sent men, like your daddy, to go die. Mom and apple pie, they just sell the shit. The war in our neighborhood is no different. It’s someone sold as the good guys versus somebody’s bad guys, it’s always someone selling something. The cops and all of us down here in the neighborhoods, we’re just players in somebody else’s game.’

“The cops in Oakland were raising hell on earth in our neighborhood. It was all out war. Truckloads of cops with shields and helmets in riot gear, clubs and guns come through the street busting heads open, or worse. The leaders of the community were getting arrested all the time. What little stability I’d found in the family of friends disappeared. I was left to fend for myself on the streets, terrified all the time. I stumbled through life for a while. Just a kid, like ten or eleven years old. It’s the same bullshit then as now. It’s all the spin. The cops in riot gear coming through busting up the kitchens and the few clinics caring for the people, feeding homeless kids, the news called those people terrorists. Let me tell you, when I saw that army jumping out of those SWAT trucks, I was pretty fucking terrified. I was never once terrified by someone giving me a plate of food or a clean shirt to wear or medicine when I was sick. Armed soldiers in my street pointing guns at me? That was terrifying.

“It’s the same bullshit now. If you get any news at all about our story, what we are living through right now isn’t any story at all. There’s a water problem and the state and the feds are working to make sure everyone is cared for. Look around. Look at that glow from your burning neighborhood. Do you feel cared for? No man, we don’t fit the narrative, so we have got to go. I’m scared of the cops and the National Guard now. I’m scared they are coming to take us out before the truth about how bad it is gets out.”

Jesús takes a pause. He looks shaken. Jane gives him a sip of water. She gently rubs his back. “Tell us how you got started preaching, Jesús.”

“I guess it was 1975. The Panthers were pretty well disbanded by then. The cops and the FBI had won. I came across these hard-core Christian fundamentalists, Christian nationalists. The Panthers had been broken up. Something had to come in to fill the void they left in me. I needed to be in school, they schooled me. I needed to be fed. They fed me. I needed to be clothed, and they clothed me.

“That church, man, they got me standing up and testifying and talking in tongues, jumping around, and sweating and praising. The energy was tremendous. I knew it was a show, but I could play the part. I could preach me some Jesus. A voice in my head was always telling me I was full of shit, but I knew that. I always knew exactly who I was. I saw the magic in the word and the coins on the collection plate, and how they were connected.

“Today, I’ve lost the ability to pretend to put on the show. A woman from my church came through here about a month ago, telling me I abandoned her and my flock. They need me now more than ever. I told her the only thing they need right now is water and I ain’t got any.

“It is a good thing, I suppose, that not every cut leaves a scar…” He says and runs his fingernails deep into the letters carved in the headstone. “People need to see you for more than the scars you carry. They are part of you, but not your entire story…”

Janie starts yelling! “Someone or something has to turn our way. We need to get our story out. That’s why no one is coming to help. No one knows what it’s like here now. That’s why they cut the power and the internet, so we can’t tell our story. They are pretending what’s happening here isn’t as bad as we know it is!”

Jesús replies, “Jane, the reality is most of the power lines have burned in the heat, as have the transformers and distribution centers. What power there is to be had is being diverted to the cites in the south. There are many moving pieces. It’s not all a conspiracy. The money is protecting the money. That story is as old as dirt itself.

He turns to me and says, “What about you, Sam? I know a little about Jane here. You and me, we never knew each other.”

I pick up a handful of the cemetery dirt and rub it into my palms as if I’m performing some kind of ritual. “I’m not much, Jesús, I’m like that old country song by George Jones. I’m just a bartender, and I don’t like my work… not much more to tell. I got into a lot of trouble in school. I was never much for formal education, so I dropped out in my senior year. A couple of teachers told me I was smart, but I was bored to death in school. I had a B average when I quit. I don’t know, I never had much use for all that. I did a stint as a railroader, decided that was way too much like work. I wasn’t an engineer, or anything cool like that. I worked on track maintenance. I decided the Army was more my style, so I joined up, and hid as much as I could hide for four years. I learned to drive truck on the Army’s dime. I got out and started slinging drinks to drunks. Seemed like an uncomplicated life. I killed a guy in a fight once, it was self-defense, then one day I woke up in this magical land and here we are, you, me and Jane, waiting for the end of the world.”

It’s quiet for a moment. The strangest thing comes to mind. There is so little noise at night now. You could always hear traffic on Route 11 from up here and the endless scream of the summer bugs. It’s dead silent, except for a burst of hot breeze. It must be close to 10pm. No one cares much about time anymore. The little thermometer I carry in my bag says it’s still one-hundred and five degrees.

Janie looks up at the sky and speaks, “When I was a little girl, you could see the stars at night so clearly. I used to love to lie on a hill like this and look up to the sky and fantasize about the amazing life I was going to have when I grew up. I never found that life. My husband was a dick, but that was OK. I hated him anyway. One day we split, I kept my kids. Do you remember me, Jesus, when I was a news reporter on the local cable channel? Sam says he never saw me. Sam is kind of a dick too.

“I was a bit of a local celebrity. That job ended when the power died. I’d suck both your dicks for a gallon of water. It’s like that now. I’m trying to figure out if my kids are better off without me. Sam is on a mission to get me back with them. To be honest, I’m about clean out of fucks to give. We are dying here. I think those of us that remain are just too stupid to lay the fuck down. I guess I’m done waiting on the knights on white horses to come and rescue us all.”

I join Jane on the dry crunchy grass and turn my gaze skyward. All I see is the moon, dulled in the smoky haze of the fires that surround us. Fires in the city and fires in the forests.

I put my back against a headstone; I see Jesús is dozing in the dirt next to Janie. I’m exhausted. I fight sleep, but sleep finally wins.