51
Ride offered:
Motorhome traveling westnortheast in a couple days, got an extra seat if you’re headed that way. No gas money needed, but offering this as a work trade. I need an extra set of hands to finish my off-grid tiny house and in exchange can drop you off anywhere along the way. Should be pretty easy, the end is in sight. I’ll also provide food and we’ll eat like kings. Pets welcome.
The unmissed connection of Craigslist strikes again, sounded right up Miles’ alley and more sustainable than his rooftop. He evacuated the city with the longest two hour notice yet.
The alternative dwelling used conventional construction, wood and screws and squares and angle brackets. The end was in sight, but only because start and finish could fit into the same viewfinder. The site was most remindedly his property, he bought a paper that said he was in charge, and it was about as off the grid as it gets, excluding of course the triweekly three hour trip to town for propane, gas, and food.
The average workday began at three in the afternoon with a gas-powered grinder to generate caffeine, and this was the least wasteful use of time and energy about the whole thing. Miles was up by ten with plenty of space for prayer and Timpsileh, bored by noon as he cranked the genny with hopes of a tool-powered alarm clock, but the unanswered wake-up call was ineffective at motivating the owner into building his own future.
Once he was finally up and ready, they geared up for the two hours of remaining daylight. Miles should go ahead and get started, turns out he wasn’t ready after all, and once he was, the union required them to take five every fifteen. He was no slave driver, Miles could also slow his momentum just as he was getting into the flow, but he definitely had no problem sitting down as he watched Miles handle the least favorite of tasks.
Conveniently, Miles was better at most of the hard stuff, so it would be more convenient for the other guy to just organize screws or something. Or set up the gas-powered video games. Or just lay on the couch. Two person jobs were left up to one, one person jobs required a second set of hands to make up for the most asinine approach to getting out of work, and the late start demanded a dedicated flashlight holder until it was simply too cold to want to work.
Progress was put on hold as labor intensity was outsourced by the purchase of an easier way, because most people live off-grid for the convenience of a store bought existence. But no worries, there were plenty of unrelated chores that Miles could do in the downtime, nothing that propelled him to the agreed upon tradeoff, but that didn’t matter to the self-appointed king, because he owned the time of the peasants he was supporting, and what could it possibly matter to the working class what they do for a living, as long as there was food on the table.
The king’s mandates prioritized the dollar over ecological impact, we can always buy more wood as we cut trees out of the view, and any focus on the future revolved around money to be made.
And getting chicks. That’s what all the money was for. And for going to the bar. To get chicks. Drunk chicks, because those are the easy ones, but you gotta have some cash to flash, I never meet anybody cool around here though, just a bunch of alcoholics and party kids, hey you wanna go grab a drink, what, you told me five times already that you don’t drink, how do you ever meet chicks dude, oh you’re not interested in barflies anymore, but those are the easy ones. And a bunch of other womanizing shit like that.
And just derogatory speak in general. A cynical negativity about any case his mind had already closed. The weather was terrible and he couldn’t wait to wish away enough time for the miserable winter to be over. The best he could hope for was not too bad.
And the swearing. I thought this book had been bad. His had an expletive in every sentence, every part of speech, so ingrained into his rhetoric that there wasn’t even an emphasis of purpose. He used it once and it felt good, used it a bunch more because his friends did, but his intolerance to anyone else had devolved into a constant stream of profanity just to feel normal.
And exploding F-bombs assaulted the victims of his spacial unawareness. Often frustrated by his own lack of mindfulness, he was always shouting and cussing at the stupid Chinisium bullshit, because it couldn’t be his fault. It wasn’t his fault about all the pollutions in the world either, what could his own contributions really matter, and what does it even matter if we try to change America’s way of life from the inside, China’s the biggest polluter of them all, and they’re not stopping anytime soon, which is good, because I gotta order some more of those discount widgets, the last ones they sent me were pieces of junk.
He was just a loud person in general, hard of listening and liked to hear himself talk. It’s hard to engage in conversation with someone who already knows the answer, often giving it to you before they have any idea what you’re talking about, and they never do, because there was no conversation. He talked at you, not with you, and once it’s obvious that zero attention is spent on actually listening to you, just enough to turn the pages to their side of the story, it seems pointless to put yourself out there and far more gratifying to just write it in a book somewhere.
Then you could sell it, make a bunch of money, compensate your time, everything has a dollar value, and I bought yours with food and tobacco, but I’m gonna have to get you the cheapest smokes, money’s getting tight, sure, I’m still gonna smoke an eight dollar pack of Spirit everyday, but your twelve dollar rollies that last a week and a half are breaking the bank, money doesn’t grow on trees, it grows out of humans, and my concerns come first because, well, hell you’re doing most of the work for a few dollars a day, how important to the world could you possibly be?
Every one-sided talking-to crawled through money, about this or that, but it always came down to brass tax, his idea of minimalism was buying the lowest quality of life possible. It weighed on every decision, or fantasy, when asked what he’d do with unlimited funds, his answer was to buy a private island and build a castle, just for himself, then he could decide who was allowed to be there and he could charge them all a cover, it’s just human nature to want more than everyone else.
It was pretty much the same as Miles’ answer, took place on an island at least. Miles had a lot bigger island, public though, lots of little houses, and free food, and anybody was welcome, but Miles never was good at managing personal interest.
And Miles not ever having been the king of the castle, he must have misread his indenturement contract, because what kind of royalty eat Walmart tube beef and other so-called poverty meals? It was all cool, Miles had cut as much machined meat from his diet as he could, but as he traveled, he knew he would have to eat from wherever the universe made reservations. So he gave an extra prayer for the prisoners of the inventory sheet, and to those who are involved with their torture, and a prayer that the two-leggeds begin to feel a true relationship with the living lives of our brothers and sisters.
But it would be nice to have at least some vegetables, but fresh vegetables are too expensive, cucumbers went from fifty cents to fifty-eight, let’s get four meats instead, and a bunch of cheese and eggs and milk, ooh and cookies, you wanna pick out your own pack since I always eat two-thirds of every dessert while you’re still out there doing three-quarters of the work, but I bought them, so they’re really mine anyway. I’m the breadwinner here, so I should get special concessions, not the slacker who’s essentially donating their time to my retirement.
Oh, no cookies? You’d rather get three heads of broccoli for the same price, ugh, fine, get your stupid vegetables. But save me some of that pie, I’m gonna eat the other half in bed before I wake up tomorrow, but by dusk I’ll make us breakfast, and I know I told you the first meal of the day would be ready in an hour, over an hour ago, but I’m just not feeling hungry for some reason, oh yeah, I’ve been laying on the couch and ate a whole jar of queso, oh well, shouldn’t you get to work, only got ten minutes of daylight left?
A neighbor must have tuned into Miles’ prayer for our foods to be sacred, he brought a few packs of ground venison, a gift of his heart from the natural bounty of the Earth. And the deer burger was really good, the first night, but apparently not everyone in the community held the kitchen sacred. A few days later, there it was, warm and juicy all over the counter, under some mysterious mess that kept accumulating out of someone’s excess baggage.
Oh man, deer went bad, don’t know whose fault it was, I wanted it just as bad as you did, I mean yeah, I was the one cooking it, and yeah, I put the groceries up that day and another since, but you’re the one who expected me to give a shit about the only meat you actually looked forward to eating and a gift you held sacred, but no biggie, just throw it out to the dog, we’ve got plenty of tube beef to last us, that stuff’s hella cheap.
And he did buy Timps a bag of food with only minimal price gouging, she was eating more natural than they were, too bad he couldn’t put her to work.
Walmart tube meat meant that Miles was going to Walmart, ugh. He hardly engaged with his surroundings, just enough to sneak a single vegetable under the calculating eye of carnal thirst, aisle after aisle of plastic packed logos and imported exploits, consumers clogging arteries until they were ready to checkout, and when Miles tried to consolidate bags to reduce pollution, he was laughed at for giving a shit about waste.
And then we gotta get gas, and a coffee, and a four dollar combo. What’s that, you don’t need a to-go cup, you’ve been carrying your own around since I met you, oh well, I got you one anyway, I’ll just drink it too, and oh man, somebody needs to clean this truck out, there’s like fifteen disposable cups rolling around in here, and they’re all on your side, have fun.
Oh, and can you do the dishes tonight, I know you always use the same cup, I don’t know why there’s always a sink full of them everyday, but I’ve got an on-demand hot water heater, just have to run five gallons through the lines first, and when I do them, I just fill up the sink and let them soak in filthy dishwater, gives me time to take five, plus it makes it easier for me to talk you into wanting to do them the right way.
Oh, and next time you pray for your food, can you pray that I make some money?
I got to get some more propane. We use a little bit to cook, but the furnace is what really drains it, and we have to have heat or we’ll freeze to death, priority number two after prerolls, it’s just a simple necessity of life off-grid, being free of the man comes at a cost.
Sure, you’ve been sleeping outside in a tent the whole time, and yeah, it’s way warmer here than most places, and okay, if the propane runs out I can just plug a heater into the generator and keep it by my bed, and if I need something, I’ll get you to leave your air cooled insulation on the couch, because I’m just too cozy. But nah, a woodstove’s just way too much work, even if it would be cheaper, all that sweating we’d have to do to provide heat, and time is scarce, only two hours in a workday, plus we’d have no excuse to ditch the job and hit the town.
But we should probably make a another run soon, burn a little daylight to refill the gas it takes, because we’re gonna want to run the genny to watch movies on the big screen, as we fully immerse ourselves in the mainstream glorification of colonizing war culture, but I’ll probably talk over them anyway and let you know they’re garbage, which in my doublespeak means that they’re not so bad.
But I’ll be nice to you, I’ll even do this weird thing where when you’re just notifying me of something matter of fact, like, “Hey, I put the screws over there,” or “Oh man, I dropped my glove,” or “I’m gonna go eat a banana,” I’ll make sure to let you know that it’s okay, that I approve of the thing that you were in no way seeking permission for, but I feel like I owe you that kindness, since I’m in charge of your time and all.
Finally, after several weeks of one more days, Miles was done with the most houselike construction of his journey, but the least like a home. He just needed to vent some of the gas fumes and point out that this chapter was completely devoid of meaningful dialog, not a coincidence.