Reclamation Day

                                        ____________ Reclamation Day_____________

Some rocks found in gardens, demand to be turned over. Seeing one, an unusual slice, stratified with frozen epoch, exposed, and made smooth by the grand revealer, water, I kneel and prepare to find gold. But then I think, what of snakes?

Casual Interludes

The Author

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"So, I’m standing in line with the all the Cycle-4 idiots," the man says to the shivering woman sitting on the floor beside a makeshift cardboard-box table. Her paper robes are stuck to her cold, sweaty skin, and she held a badly rolled cigarette between her fingers.

         “Give me some of that,” he says, as he yanks it from her hand. Anyway, listen to this—.”

The woman did not look at the man as he recited, again, his story of another day at Resource Recovery.

         “All right, over comes this Reclamation Cop. You know, one of those leering types. Guy likes to get right in your face and look you up and down.”

The man exhales a cloud of acrid smoke and hands the cigarette back to the woman on the floor. She refuses it. He shrugs absently and returns it to his lips.

           “Anyway, I just look down at my feet. I don’t want no trouble, you know?”

The man paces in tight circles around the woman, waiting for her to acknowledge his question. She finally does so with an agreeable head-nod, but without actually looking at him.

         “I’ll be damned if the cop doesn't walk right up to me and he just stands there, not saying a word. Finally I look up—I was more than a little nervous, you know—but…I didn’t say a word. You remember last time, right?” he asks rhetorically. “No, ma'am, not a word this time.”

           The man sits on the floor beside the flimsy table, near the woman, and snuffs the cigarette butt into the remains of a broken bottle. The woman picks up the smoldering butt and drops it into a dirty tin that sits next to her on the floor.

         “Thanks, honey. Those will come in handy later,” he says, before he returns to his story.

         “Finally, after staring at me for the better part of a minute, this goon finally says something. I don't understand what he says, at first—.'

         He continues to talk to the woman beside him as if she was being attentive to him—to his story—but she was not. She made no attempt even to feign interest in him or his rambling tale. But none of that mattered to him.

         “So, when I ask him what he wants with me, he explodes; starts shouting at me,” he said, incredulously. “I can't believe what he does next; he tears open my coat! He was a damn nasty Rec-Cop. Well fed, he was; that’s for sure. They always are, you know?”

         The man stares off into space for a moment or two, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“But he looks sick or something,” he added, with a shrug. “Whatever his problem was, it sure made for an angry cop. Anyway, he finally says something I can understand: ‘What have you got for reclamation?’"

         “I tell you, honey, I was shitting my pants 'bout then. I've seen these guys beat a man to death over a few pieces of green glass.” 

           The woman’s eyes soften, and she finally turns to the man and studies him. His expression glowed with remembered fear as he relived the events of the day. She puts a hand over his.

         “Wow, you’re really cold,” he says, taking her thin, clammy hand between his, and rubbing it briskly. He looks into her eyes, still rubbing her hand, and presses on.

“So, I show him those things you gave me, and do you know what he does then?” The man doesn't wait for an answer. “He smiles.”

         The woman looks to him, incredulously.

         “I’m not shitting you. He just smiles at me. My blood freezes solid I tell you, right in my veins.”

         The man's brow knots, and he release his wife's hand. “There you go, honey. That's better, isn't it? The thing is, all the others in line have moved away, like they know something is about to happen. I lose my place in line, of course; four goddamn hours worth of waiting—gone.”

           He pauses for a moment and grabs the can of cigarette stubs, shakes it around and assesses its stinky contents. “Here, honey. Roll me one, will you?” he asks, passing her the can.

         She smiles absently and takes the tin.

           “Cop doesn’t smile at me for long, though. Says, ‘Give them to me.’”

         “I must have gone all white or something, ‘cause his eyes get big, and he reaches out to steady me. Thinks I'm going to fall down or something. Shit, I don't know. Maybe I was.”

           The woman finishes rolling the cigarette, then pulls a small energy cell from the folds of her sticky robe and places it on the table beside a thin coil of wire. She awkwardly twists a series of contacts together like a person familiar with the mechanics of the task, but who never really develops a knack for performing it. Awkwardly, she manages to coax a small, hot glow from the wire and quickly lights the cigarette. She takes a drag and passes it to the man.

         “I figure there's no point in trying to hide. The cop is clever; you can see it in his eyes. And that damn smile.”

         The woman sits quietly beside her companion and twists the thin metal filament she used to light the cigarette tightly around her finger. Once she finishes making the small coil, she places it and the energy cell back into the folds of the robe.

         “Anyway, I look him in the eyes again, and he's still smiling down at me. He holds out his hand and makes that gesture,” the man extends his hand toward the woman and flutters his fingers, “that give it to me, gesture.”

According to his recall, he mimics the actions of the Reclamation Cop perfectly. “I mean, what could I do, right?” he adds with a shrug. “So I give them to him.”

         The woman stops fiddling with her robes as an expression of desperate surprise washes across her face. She looks at him, hopefully, for a sign that he’s joking with her.

         He sits closer to her and holds the half-burned cigarette in one hand while he taps the other on the table. The hollow, rhythmic sound forces a shiver to course its way over her clammy body. Eventually, his face lights up in a broad smile, and the woman can do nothing but sit with her confusion as he remains determined to keep quiet. Seconds later, he stops the irritating tapping and takes the woman's hand once again.

“You know what he does next?” he asks her.

But the only thing she can do is nod absently, still confused by the constrast he’s presented.

         “The smirking bastard reaches into his vest,” he tells her raising an eyebrow. “Next thing I know, he pulls a small bag from inside his vest and hands it to me, then waits for me to turn over those things you gave me.”

         A second later, the man breaks into a satisfied laughter. “Son of a bitch wants to trade!” He reaches into the folds of his own threadbare overcoat and withdraws a small brown sack that he throws on the table in front of the shocked woman.

         “Can you believe it? A double ration!” he says.  “Jesus, honey, Reclamation wouldn’t have given me half a ration for those things,” he tells her matter-of-factly.

         The woman regards him carefully, and for the first time since he returned home, she seems pleased with him. She takes the sack and quickly pours the contents onto the table. She places the sack carefully beside her and begins counting the large liver-colored tablets. Once she finishes, it takes her several minutes to divide the hundred or so tablets that will provide them with the drugs and nutrients they need to sustain themselves. In a careful, practiced motion, far more accomplished than when she light the cigarette moments before, she scoots two tablets to the side and returns the rest to the sack. Then, she stands up and walks several feet across the small room to a loose board in the wall, just under a sad old painting of a yellow dog. The task complete, she returns quietly and sits down at the table. Husband and wife exchange wordless glances.

         “Let’s eat,” he says.

           She extends her hand toward her husband and places one of the two tablets into his open mouth, the other into her own. They both close their eyes in anticipation of the jolt of calming medication and nourishment that will soon flood their bloodstream. After several moments, the man opens his eyes and looks at his wife.          

“You look better now, honey,” he tells her, and smiles. He looks away from her long enough to check the light that had penetrated the small pane of glass covering a hole in the wall to the outside. “It’s almost dark; we’d better get covered up for the night. It’s been getting colder lately.”

         The woman is already unfolding the Mylar blanket that will keep them warm through the night as they huddle in the center of the small room.

         “Maybe next cycle—maybe you can steal some more of those little things. What did you call them?” he asks, as he pulls the reflective plastic around their bodies.

         “Birthday candles,” she answers. “'That's what the box said.”

         He nuzzles her face as she speaks, and both shiver under the plastic blanket.

         “They used to put them on…,” she knew the words but didn't understand them, and hesitated, “…birthday cakes.” She looked at him as if he might know what they meant.

         But all he could do was shrug. Echoing her words, he pulls her close to his chest. “Birthday candles, huh?”