Dystopian Fiction

Tell me that’s not the face of a beast waiting for me to show signs of weakness. So she can gut me. And eat me.

I think probably one shouldn’t read dystopian fiction in the midst of a pandemic.

I may be experiencing some paranoia.

But this book.

It was good. A little too good.

Like, I’ve spent the last week reading it. And have, during that time, struggled to maintain what was fiction panic and what was pandemic panic.

Like, I’d wake up in the morning. And have a moment of panic. Because you can’t make coffee when an Electromagnetic Pulse has knocked out power all over the country. And then I’d remember. No. Coffee is fine. It’s just toilet paper we can’t have.

And chicken.

But I feel like I’m getting in some solid practice. For the next catastrophic event.

Do you know what it takes to get a very low profile engineless vehicle onto a rampless trailer?

I do.

Invited The BFF over for a front porch beer last night. Because thank fuck beer is still an option. Ended up with most of The Family over here.

Thinking were gonna hang out. Like we used to do. Pre-pandemic.

And we were getting dangerously close to the ten person maximum.

And then some dudes showed up. From West Virginia. With their girlfriends. And a trailer. Attached to a two-wheel drive truck. To get the engineless car that has lived at my house for the last two years.

Yeah. You’re gonna need more than two wheels to push a trailer up my double black diamond driveway.


So just leave the trailer at the bottom of the driveway, and let’s just push the car down to the trailer.

So we did.

I mean, most of us did. The West Virginia girlfriends didn’t. They just sat in the truck.

No, that’s cool. You’re the ones wanting the car. But the rest of us have got this.

Because pushing a broken down car around is exactly the kind of dystopian practice we need right now.

Except no. That’s not gonna work. Because the driveway is too steep to get the car up onto the trailer.

Why don’t you pull the trailer down to the road. And we’ll push the car onto it down there.

So we did.

Except no. That’s not gonna work. Because the road is too flat to get the car up onto the trailer.

Why don’t you pull the trailer down to the next road. And we’ll push the car onto it down there.

Two hours.

Two hours. Ten people. (Definitely not more than ten. We definitely didn’t violate that pandemic rule.) Fifty miles. (Give or take. It felt like fifty.)

Not even close to enough beer.

I swear we pushed that damn car halfway into town.

And then spent a solid hour in this phase of the process.

Is that not good enough? Can you not just drag it back to West Virginia like that? I’ve got some twist ties we could use. To secure it…

And here is where I was reassigned from pushing. To pulling. The e-brake.

Because no one else was willing to take on that level of responsibility. For other people’s lives. Or appendages.

I mean, you’re gonna be losing a significant amount of power. But ok. I’m a team player. I’ll go where I’m assigned.

I’m super compliant.

Looked at The BFF’s poor husband. “You thought you were coming over just to hang out, and I got you pushing an entire vehicle for miles. And I only gave you one beer.”

“Yeah. And it was a light beer.”

I’m not sure exactly how this experience will help during the next catastrophe.

If nothing else. I was reminded that I live in probably exactly the neighborhood you’d want to live in. During a time of panic.

Because these people will just help. With whatever. No questions asked.

But also. I need to keep more beer on hand.

And also. Why aren’t massage therapists considered essentials?

Also? Look at how much space my baby has to stretch out in my driveway now.

Ima just park any damn way I want to now.

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