The drumbeat has begun, warning of a looming pandemic. The government suggests we prepare. Store two weeks of food and water. Stockpile medications. Don’t panic.
Don’t panic? You just told me to prepare for End Times.
I don’t think it will come to that. But to cover my bases I bought a few things. Well, two things: Dog food and wine. The dog food, in forty pound bags, will have to be packed in heavy duty, snap-lid containers, then carefully watched. Mice love dog food, and can get through anything. In the mouse’s world, it’s always end times.
I stowed two cases of cheap cabernet in the basement. They give you a free bottle if you buy the case. I’ll have to remember that. The wine is inexpensive, but there is nothing cheap about the taste. It drinks like a thirty-dollar bottle. Maybe better. Smooth and dry, the finish is without hint of tin or syrup, and has that slightly feral taste you associate with the best. I won’t tell you the brand; I don’t want a run on the stock.
Oh, what the heck. It’s Santiago Station Devil’s Back.
I’m a bad prepper. I’m slightly dumb, with a big mouth.
The other night my wife and I had dinner with our favorite couple. Steve and Trish are fun-loving, and both retired earlier than most. They lived sensibly. When the kids moved out they sold their house and bought a condo. It’s too late to get rich, Steve says, and you actually can live on love. My kind of people. We sat in our living room, finishing another bottle of Devil’s Back. “This is good wine,” Trish said.
“You got that right.” I had an idea. If society collapses, the two of them can live with us. We have an extra bedroom. It will be fun.
They loved it. I immediately regretted the offer. In a crisis, there will be work to do. Water will have to be hauled. Vegetables sliced and canned. I saw Steve sitting around cracking jokes and drinking wine.
“You know,” Trish said. “We might have to defend ourselves from the neighbors.”
“What do you mean?”
“They will run out of food, and come for your stockpile.”
I thought about this. Sharon, across the street, uses a cane. A neighbor snowblows her driveway. Demonte and Kath, with their new baby, live next door. They work at a sheet metal fabricator. Mohamed, down the block, owns two convenience stores. He often doesn’t get home until ten. The neighborhood is speckled with postal workers, forklift operators, receptionists, drafting techs, cashiers, truck drivers, church custodians, families renting houses, retired folk. Gary Falkhamer, who walks his pug every night past my house, has a dream. He wants to own a new vehicle. Never has. He’s fifty-seven. These are people used to modest living. No one has caused any trouble yet.
In a crisis, I like my chances with my neighbors. This is the right place.
The wrong place might be the broad swath of big homes stretching from South Minneapolis to Edina. These are people who depend on things going smoothly. They can’t fix anything. They have money and Range Rovers and inheritances and 401k’s and if access to ATM’s is shut off there’s going to be trouble. They shop at Lunds & Byerlys, an upscale grocer with wide aisles and carpeted floors. They wouldn’t be caught dead in a Walmart. For all their progressive values they don’t really like people. Or, I should say, a certain kind of people.
“Let’s have another,” Steve says, holding up his glass. I bit my lip, thinking about the stockpile.
“Wait a minute,” says Trish. “Open the bottle we brought. And Steve, didn’t you buy a case, like I told you?”
“It’s in the truck.”
I pulled the cork, laughing. If there’s panic in the streets and you find yourself storming the neighbor’s house, do the right thing. Bring wine.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com