SOCIAL SECURITY
By Pamela Rentz
Originally appeared in Wordstock 10, 2007
On the first of the month, Lewis Cedar Creek, a gray-haired Karuk Indian, stepped out onto what was left of his front porch. He twisted a wire scrap to fasten the screen, bolted the trailer door, then slid a rusted sheet of metal from Gerry Charles’ smoke house in front. He attached the metal to the door with a heavy chain and a large padlock he’d taken from an abandoned truck right at the time the world tilted and the looters became the fortunate ones. The padlock was busted, but the sight of it discouraged the curious.
He stepped back to inspect his work. Sweat itched between his shoulder blades. He shucked his sweatshirt and hid it behind a cracked ceramic planter half-filled with dusty soil. The morning was a sizzler and only going to get worse. He picked up a dusty cap from the brown grass in front of the trailer. He shouldn’t have left it outside. If it disappeared he wouldn’t find another one.
He hurried down the gravel path to the road, anxious to get the errand done and return to the safety of home. The rocks shifted and his feet skidded out from under him. He gave a little cry as he flopped down hard in the dirt gully that had once welcomed the trickle of water known as Cedar Creek.
He exhaled hard and struggled to draw in breath. Pain throbbed in his legs as though someone smacked at the bottom of his feet with a heavy piece of wood. He put his hands on his chest to encourage his lungs and finally lifted his head from the dirt to assess the damage. His bum hip remained bum, but he shook each leg until he was certain it would work again. He thought to rest a bit but lurched to his feet when he saw a buzzard redirect its wobbly circle to take a closer look.
“Not dead, yet.”
He limped to the bottom of the hill, shut and latched the gate, and hurried past the decayed remains of two long-empty trailers, a popular hideout for kids who found it entertaining to scare an old man. He paused at the last shade tree to catch his breath before he stepped onto the old highway.
Not far up the road, Gerry Charles’ son and family walked through the faint haze that blurred the air over the cracked and steaming asphalt. They all had the same thick black hair and barrel-shaped bodies. Gerry had died years ago, and Lewis could never remember the son’s name. He came to think of him as Gerry Junior. Junior carried a glass jug of clear brown liquid in one hand and the hand of the youngest child in the other. He smiled when he saw Lewis.
“Hey Cedar. When you gonna get some water in your creek?”
“See me in January.” Lewis pointed his thumb over his shoulder as if they could see winter on its way.
“But I’m thirsty now,” Junior said.
Everyone laughed in spite of the truth of it.
“FedCen?” Junior asked.
“You bet,” Lewis said. “I got a pension.” He fell into step with them.
“Lucky man,” Junior said, and laughed a little.
The wife had a bulging canvas bag looped over one shoulder. She reached in and pulled out a ragged paper bag. “You got a pocket?”
“I don’t need anything,” he said. He cast a meaningful look at the children.
She dug in the bag and held out her fist. “Go on.”
It was too hot to argue with the woman. He cupped his hands and she half-filled them with red beans, shaking off the last few that stuck to her sweaty fingers.
“Lucky indeed,” Lewis said, transferring them to his own pocket.
The old highway cut through steep-sloped mountains built from jagged rock and patched with evergreen forest that suffered from fire most summers. The river flowed not far below the road, following the same crease in the mountains.
“River already looks bad,” Junior said. “It’s only June.”
Lewis looked down the motionless water and river rock glazed with algae. “Looks like syrup,” he said. “Remember when we swam in that?”
“Just barely,” Junior said. “We weren’t allowed to open our mouths because of bad water.” He made it sound like it was fun.
The wind shifted, and they all staggered back at the ugly scent of sour greens that floated off the river bottom.
“Pwewee.” The little girl covered her eyes and whimpered.
“No kidding. That burns,” Lewis said, and wiped a tear from his eyes.
“Them upriver folks take all our water,” Junior said. There was no anger in his voice. “It’s not right.”
“Perhaps,” Lewis said. He didn’t think anyone was getting enough water. “Let’s hope for summer showers,” he said, as if it were a real possibility.
They fell silent as the road curved up over a mound of gravel and across the bridge into town. Even back in good times this was mostly a place people drove through on their way to someplace else.
The single business remaining in town was the Federal Center, a fancy name for the preserved portion of the old grocery store and post office. An old timer named Ben handed out mail, medicine, sold basic provisions and performed other government services, generally in the form of passing on bad news, if any should be needed.
Lewis remembered it starting as a money crisis, but others insisted it was the unpredictable weather. It took a decade, and everything else had been burned down or boarded up. The Tribal Benefits Office was the second-to-last business, but Council voted it closed and asked members to travel to the TBO upriver for assistance. Council overlooked the part where no one could get upriver without assistance.
The FedCen had been painted, in a brief moment of economic optimism, two years earlier. Lewis never failed to feel reassured to see it there, among the pillaged shacks of the old town, sturdy doors wide open. Lewis had to touch his forehead when he saw the fresh plywood covering the entrance. They’d even covered the sign so now all it said was FE…R.
“Leave it to the government to close up when checks are due,” Lewis said, his voice tight. He circled the boarded-up building.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Junior said.
Lewis stood where the door should have been and slapped the boards with his open hand. Inside, he heard a sound like a butter knife clattering into a metal pail, then silence.
“Ben Government?” Lewis slapped the boards again. “Come out here.”
“We heard Ben Government was sick,” Junior’s wife said.
They called him Ben Government to distinguish him from Ben Tom, the local who took care of services the government could not, including law enforcement, whether or not anyone cared to recognize it.
Lewis picked up a river rock the size of his fist and slammed it against the boards. The plywood dented under his beating, but nothing gave way.
“Ben Government ain’t here,” said a thin voice from inside.
“It’s the first.” Lewis switched the rock to his other hand and wiped his sweaty palm on his pants. He grabbed the rock in his good hand again and pounded the planks with more energy. A crack appeared and a trace of cool air slipped out along with the smell of fried meat.
“Now you done it,” the no-longer-thin voice said. “Crazy Indian. Go around.”
“I need my check,” Lewis said.
“Just wait,” she said.
A familiar woman came out to the front and nodded at Junior and his wife. “There’s nothing,” she said. “No services here.”
“We understand,” Junior said. “Can you get him a check?”
“No checks.” The woman swept her hands in front of her as if clearing the air.
“Maybe Lewis has one,” Junior said.
Lewis didn’t catch what happened next, but the woman threw her hands in the air and gestured for him to follow.
“Thanks, Patsy,” Junior said, moving his family along. “Good luck, Lew.”
Lewis followed past the burned-out wreck of the volunteer fire truck parked under a leafy oak. The sour river smell was strong here.
The backdoor of the FedCen missed a doorknob. An old sock hung out of the hole. The cracked linoleum floor, covered with dirt, scratched under his old boots.
“Where’s Ben?” Lewis wanted to know.
“He’s bad off. The Red Cap folk look out for him,” she said, referring to a group of families on the other side of the river.
“And the truck?”
“Sorry old timer, I don’t know. It comes through today, but it won’t stop here.” The large form of her man slept on the couch. They had pulled a cook stove and table into the old post office sorting room.
“That’s not right,” he said, without much conviction.
“I know.”
“Nothing? No commodities? No pills?”
“Only upriver.” She looked up long enough to point her chin in the right direction.
“And my check?”
“I’m getting that now.”
“Cedar Creek.”
“I know who you are.” She yanked open a drawer.
He could see the mail slots and itched to check his.
“Ain’t nothing there, Creek.”
She put a piece of paper on the table. The tip of her pencil snapped off when she touched it to the paper and she cursed a word he’d never heard before. She dug around in the sleeping man’s pocket until she found a penknife. He never stirred. She whittled a new pencil point and scratched a few words on the paper and then handed it to him.
Lewis looked it over ,then folded it and slid it into his shirt pocket. “I guess it will do. Thank you.”
“You gotta get going now,” she said.
#
If Lewis could catch the truck, he could get a ride. He could take care of the check at the upriver FedCen and visit the TBO. The government truck kept an irregular schedule due to funding and the bandit problem downriver. In the first years of the restructuring, the truck came through twice a day carrying mail, food supplies, and medicine. Some days it even brought newspapers and school books for the kids. Last year Lewis counted himself lucky when he saw the truck more than once a month.
He stood in the road and rubbed his eyes in the dazzling light. The sunlight hurt his head after the darkness of the government office. He walked along the road and hoped the truck was on schedule. He looped a strip of cloth torn from a Lucky Acorn Casino sweatshirt around his forehead and perched his sweat-stained baseball cap from the same unlucky spot on his head.
The casino had been hit not long after the economic situation had gone to pieces. The casino had been located a couple hours away on a main highway and the locals, who had never warmed to the idea of gambling in their community, had taken it over the minute law enforcement went iffy. One of the truck drivers had seen it and said it was just another busted-up building with dueling squatters.
Lewis headed for a shady spot on the other side of Whitmore Creek, now Whitmore Slide. A winter storm had carried off a piece of mountain near the creek, sending a chunk of road tumbling toward the river and taking clumps of Madrone and a shower of rocky soil with it. Ben Tom brought his tractor through to level the area and keep it passable, but one night some kids thought it would be fun to take the rig on a joy ride and drove it over the river bank. It sat there still, rear end poking up from the muck. The government truck could squeeze by if it hugged the inside, its outside wheels bumping over the jagged edge of asphalt.
Lewis was just about to sit down when a truck he didn’t recognize rolled into view. It had fresh white paint and unfamiliar black markings like tiger stripes. He could barely see the driver over the front armor. The truck hummed along with good speed.
Lewis waved both arms over his head. “Wait. Wait, truck.” He pulled the check out and shook it to make his intention clear. The truck slowed, giving him hope, but then swerved hard where the road narrowed, scraping against the mountain.
Lewis stumbled after it, his legs aching in protest. His headband slid over his eyes, and when he pushed it back, his cap fell off. Reaching down for it aggravated the click in his hip. He held his thigh and limped into the dusty trail of the truck as it disappeared beyond the next turn.
He charged on, propelled by old man foolishness and the desire not to spend the afternoon looking for a place to hide his check. The road curved down past the slide and got wide again. When he rounded the turn, he saw the truck had stopped and pulled to the side, as though the driver expected another vehicle might need to pass. The driver, round belly and short legs and thin red hair pulled into a ponytail, pried at the armor covering the front hood.
“Ayukîi,” Lewis called.
The driver saw Lewis and leapt back into the truck and slammed the door. The engine squeaked again and again but wouldn’t turn over. Then the hazard lights started and blinked on and off unevenly.
Lewis addressed the man through the window. “What took you so long to stop?”
Ponytail man leafed through a giant binder stuffed with torn pages. His shirt was worn and gray but clean. A hand-lettered name tag said: Richard.
“Richard.” Lewis tapped on the window.
Richard jumped and the binder slipped out of his hands and hit the floor.
“Open up,” Lewis said.
Richard used a trembling hand to smooth his hair back.
“Scared of an old man?” Lewis asked.
Richard gave it some thought. “Know about trucks?” He slid open the door.
“Sure, I know about trucks.” Lewis put his foot on the door track to discourage Richard from shutting him out again. He leaned forward to look at the dashboard. “You got fuel?”
“Of course it has fuel.” Richard pushed him back with two fingers to the breastbone.
“Then let’s go.” Lewis was ready to crawl over him to get into the truck. “I’ve got this check—”
“Engine’s dead.” Richard jumped out with a rusted crowbar. The sun reflected off his shiny forehead. He worked the crowbar into the armor covering the front of the truck.
“You hit something?” Lewis asked.
“Of course not.” Richard’s ponytail was damp with sweat. “Am I safe here?”
“Why wouldn’t you be safe?”
“They told me the locals were hostile.”
Lewis didn’t know how to respond. Instead he asked, “You paint this?”
“Government gave someone a three-day supply of water, flour, and corn oil for the job.” Richard chipped at the armor. “He even painted over the bolts.”
Lewis tried to reach into the truck and found Richard waving the crowbar near his head. “You get back, now,” Richard said weakly.
“Get me a tool. I can scrape.”
“Oh.” Richard handed him a little screwdriver.
Lewis whittled gummy white paint until they could loosen the bolts and lift off the metal cage. Then Richard pried open the rusted hood and peered into the steaming engine. He reached in to touch a dusty coil, and Lewis imagined a quiet hiss as Richard snatched his hand out.
“Richard,” Lewis said, starting to feel sorry for the man, “I thought you had to know the trucks to do the route.”
“Why do you call me Richard?”
Lewis pointed at the name tag. Richard tore it off and threw it on the ground.
“Staffing problems on this route,” he said. “I was the only one who’d do it.”
“No one wants to come out here?” Lewis had never considered that.
Richard shrugged. “Government says they’re improving services. Step increases. Good for me.”
“You say, improvements?”
“Oh yeah. More benefits.”
“I knew it,” Lewis said. The news gave him a surge of energy. “Shall we go upriver?”
“Not going anywhere in a broken truck.”
“Let me look.” Lewis grasped the screwdriver like a dagger. “I was a lawn mower troubleshooting champion.”
Richard stepped back. “You’re kidding.”
“I am.” Lewis laughed. “We need Ben Tom. You got anything?”
“Anything what?”
“He’ll want payment,” Lewis said. “Cash. Fuel. Food?”
“So that’s what they meant by hostile,” Richard said.
Lewis laughed again. “Long walk.” He slammed the hood down. “Most of it uphill.”
“Can’t leave the truck,” Richard said. “I can wait here.”
“You gotta ask him yourself.”
Richard gave him a worried look. “I thought you people here didn’t help outsiders. The old ways.”
“You government people don’t know everything.”
A mini-slide of walnut-sized rocks spilled down near the truck. One pinged off the side and rattled into the gravel. Richard flinched and tried to cover it.
“Suit yourself,” Lewis said. “Probably faster to hike back the way you came rather than head for the FedCen upriver.”
“I’m not supposed to leave the truck.” Richard curled his pink hands into fists and kneaded his eyes. “Can I trust you?”
“Why wouldn’t you trust me?”
Richard took a water bottle from the truck. “Let’s get your friend to fix it,” he said. He slid back a small panel that exposed a white rectangle with intersecting red lines. “If I don’t come back, they’ll know something went wrong,” he explained.
If this was a warning, Lewis wasn’t ruffled. He wondered who ‘they’ were. Together, they replaced the armor, and Richard pulled down a sheet of metal to protect the front windshield. They secured that, too.
“Tires are vulnerable, but can’t be helped,” Richard said. He followed Lewis back up the road. “Which way?”
Lewis nodded toward a steep mountain dotted with trees and tall slabs of rock.
“Never was much of a hiker,” Richard said, and jammed his hands into his pockets. He had no hat and his pale skin already had a pink tinge.
“Maybe Ben can fix your sunburn, too.”
#
The trail cut through blackened ground and burnt-out tree trunks. Every so often a hot gust swept through the bleak landscape, and Lewis took pains not to groan in front of the government man. Two brown-haired girls came down the trail carrying plastic jugs of water. They smiled and waved at Lewis but changed direction when they saw Richard. He didn’t seem to notice.
As they topped the next rise, the Tom ranch came into view, a green jewel of gardens sprinkled with shade trees. A scent like Christmas and fresh water drifted from this pocket of the mountain.
Richard stopped in amazement. “How can this be?”
“Fresh water spring.” Lewis said. “A good one, too. Used to be six families up here fighting over it, but a bad fire swept through last summer. Ben’s family takes care of it, now.”
A lopsided cabin sat in the shade of a circle of fir trees. Crooked shelters built from materials Lewis had helped Ben salvage after the fire leaned on either side of the house. Lewis pointed to one and said, “Used to be a tractor there.” Now it protected an assortment of scrap metal, firewood, empty canning jars, and a large outdoor stove that held a big pot Lewis hoped contained something to eat.
Ben was a big Indian, scary-big if you didn’t know him, with a long black braid and a heavy step. He poked a stick in the pot and after stirring a bit pulled out an ugly piece of animal hide that smelled terrible.
“Ayukîi,” Lewis said.
“Hey, neighbor.” Ben dropped the hide back in the pot. He gestured with his chin. “What does he want?”
No one said anything. Lewis gave Richard a look.
“My truck broke down,” Richard said, his hands clasped in front of him.
“Government truck?” Ben said with interest.
“And he could use something to cover his head,” Lewis said.
Ben moved a stack of hides from a table that used to be a door and pulled out a dirty Lucky Acorn Casino T-shirt and tossed it over. Richard caught it and shook it with a loose two-finger grip.
“I thought you had to know the truck to get the route,” Ben said.
“Yes, well—” Richard said. He grimaced while Lewis tied the shirt onto his head.
“No one wants to drive out here,” Lewis said.
“Surprise, surprise,” Ben said. “What have you got?”
“We don’t carry money,” Richard said quickly.
Ben snorted. “What’s in the truck?”
“Only what the government gives me for the drops.”
“They count it?”
“It’s for the FedCen at Milepost 72,” Richard said. “I guess you’re part of the service population.”
“Can you fix the truck?” Lewis said.
“I can fix anything,” Ben said. “But why do I want to?”
“Local FedCen is closed,” Lewis said, not understanding Ben’s reluctance. “They don’t stop here no more.”
“Just temporary,” Richard said.
“I got my check.” Lewis took the paper from his pocket. “I need to get up there.”
“Your check?” Ben took the paper and flipped it over and gave Lewis a long stare. “I’ll get my tools.”
#
Ben carried the tools in a leather bag slung over one shoulder and walked with a heavy stick. Lewis saw him hide a shiny knife in his boot when Richard wasn’t looking.
“When the truck’s fixed you’ll bring us back here.” Ben said, heading down the trail at a quick pace.
“I can’t drive up this,” Richard said, hurrying after him.
“There’s an old road up the back,” Lewis said, struggling to keep up with them.
They found the truck as they had left it. Richard removed the armor and cracked open the hood. He kept the warning signal panel open.
Ben frowned at the rusty innards. He dropped his tool bag to the ground and went to work. Richard climbed into the driver’s seat and wrote notes in the tattered notebook.
Lewis watched the sun’s progress with concern. “How much time to get upriver and back?”
“You have time, Lewis,” Ben said. “Come here and help me. See that?” He pointed to something deep down. Lewis practically had to crawl in to see it. Ben surprised him by grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him close.
“We could use this truck,” Ben said, in a low voice.
It took Lewis a moment to register his meaning.
“What about—?”
Ben’s eyes flicked to his boot.
A drop of sweat ran down Lewis’ face. “We need the services,” he said.
“What services?” Ben spoke like a kind teacher, reminding him of something he should already know.
Lewis held himself perfectly still. He wished he could hear the river, like the old days, rushing below.
“Things are improving,” he insisted.
Something pinched in his heart. He put his hand over Ben’s where it grasped his shirt until Ben released it. He stepped back and stood on trembling legs. A trio of buzzards rode the breeze downriver. “I’d really like to take my check in,” he said.
Ben stared into the truck for so long Lewis worried that he’d angered the man.
“Okay,” Ben said at last. He slapped the side of the truck and shouted at Richard. “Give it a try.”
Richard turned the key and the truck coughed once and started up. “What was it?” Richard shouted over the noise.
“The conflibulator,” Ben said. “You should learn the truck.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Richard got out to secure the front armor.
Lewis leaned against the truck, keeping an eye on Ben. The reminder of how unsettled the world had become pulled the strength from him.
“He looks ill,” Richard said.
“Tough life for an elder,” Ben said.
“I’m okay,” Lewis said, standing up straight again.
Richard let them in the back of the truck. They squeezed in beside two bulging canvas bags and a grease-stained box. Inside, the truck was hot and smelled like overripe fruit. There were no seats other than the driver’s, so Lewis sat on the floor and tried to keep from bumping into anything. Ben squatted by Richard and pointed out the way. The truck bounced up the rutted road and stopped when the firs came into view.
“You’re taking him upriver?” Ben said.
“Not today,” Richard said.
“But—” Lewis could barely protest.
“I know, I know,” Richard said. “But it’s too late for the route. I have to get the truck back.”
Ben gave him an cold stare. “Come on, old man.” He helped Lewis out of the truck.
Richard tried to slam the door on their heels but Ben jammed his walking stick in the opening so that the door popped back open with a metallic thunk.
“We had an arrangement,” Ben said, standing in a way to maximize his size.
“Of course,” Richard said, as if it were a small misunderstanding.
Ben pulled the canvas bags one at a time and dropped them in the dirt. He hefted the greasy box onto one shoulder.
“You’ll be back?” Lewis said.
“You have my word,” Richard said. He turned the truck around and tossed the Lucky Acorn headband out the window as he headed downhill in a cloud of dust.
The government truck didn’t show up again for two months, and when it did, it was different truck, and it was painted yellow. There was one improvement. A door in back opened and someone tossed a canvas bag stuffed with dry goods into the road as the truck drove by.
