In The Beginning…

Back by popular demand (and by “popular” I mean that one random guy who did an internet search for “nude disco dancing”), here’s another sample of the novel-in-progress.

This time I thought I’d make it easy on everyone and actually post the first chapter, so you have some sense of what the hell this is all about…

His name was Disco Freeman, and he had a knack for making wonderful things out of other things that didn’t seem so wonderful at the time but definitely had some potential. Some clowns make kids smile with balloon animals. Disco used vegetables. He worked quickly, but precisely, turning dark, shiny aubergines into bouncing elephants and simple carrots into towering giraffes craning their necks to the sky as if gazing into a brilliant mirror. Tomatoes and radishes bloomed like flowers. Celery stalks formed fluffy-topped forests. And half a scalloped apple became a curious ladybug with dots carved into its waxy flesh.

The dioramas he created kept the children excited and he knew an excited child always brought a captive audience of parents and other adults waiting, and quietly hoping, to be impressed.

“Looks good and tastes even better,” Disco announced to the meandering crowd. “Sometimes the simplest ingredients can yield amazing results.”

As his knives flashed and sweat began to dampen his brow, Disco looked out over the assembled audience and knew, right there in the parking lot of that abandoned miniature golf course, that he had some work to do. When Disco rolled into the scavenger hamlet ofMyrtle Beach, he knew it had potential. Only a few of the East Coast’s former tourist traps were still viable landscapes for his kind of commerce. Most of the locals had moved further inland when the oceans began to bleed oil and other toxic chemicals.Myrtle Beach, however, was far enough north to avoid fallout from the Cuban disaster and far enough south to avoid runoff from the collapse of theChesapeakeecosystem. The fish caught along the Grand Strand still looked back at you with only two eyes and never scolded you for interrupting their hypnotism practice.

“What does it taste like?” one little girl asked, as she waved her hand through the wispy fronds of a fennel octopus Disco had just finished carving.

“Licorice” Disco replied.

“What’s that?” the girl giggled.

Disco flicked his knife across the fennel bulb, carefully nicking a tiny smile from the octopus’s face and presenting it to the girl. She tentatively crunched down on the pale white flesh and instantly lit up with excitement as the vegetable snapped under her teeth.

“Yummy!” she decided. “What else can you do, mister?”

“I’m glad you asked,” said Disco.

Though space was limited in his food truck, Disco had always managed to create a big show of his abilities. The Plumpies delivery truck still wore the faded face of Dewey, the company’s chubby young spokesman spoutingAmerica’s once favorite slogan “Need to Feed!” in giant red letters. A picture of the actual Plumpies, the sugar-glazed dough balls oozing with enough chocolate and cake frosting to make a diabetic sweat on sight, had long been removed in favor of a sliding glass window that allowed Disco’s customers to watch as he concocted glorious recipes from the few wild crops he was able to find and forage.

Every landscape offered different treasures and tested his cooking abilities. He dried his own herbs and chili peppers. He made cheese and wine and coffee and flavored oils from ancient methods lost to time (but mostly effort and apathy). And he had retrofitted his truck with rooftop solar panels, charcoal water filters and a wood-fired brick oven that could make the simplest corn meal cakes taste like gourmet biscuits with a generous slather of pumpkin butter and a side of sticky, wild blackberry syrup.

“Why don’t you folks take a few steps forward and I’ll show you how to make a healthy and delicious meal out of just a few things I picked up on my way into town?”

The adults in the crowd were decidedly apprehensive, giving slight apologetic shrugs to the children trying to tug them up closer. Disco could tell there was something keeping them at arm’s length. That’s when he decided to fight dirty.

Disco grabbed a nearby saucepan and, after adding a healthy glug of sunflower oil, placed it on one of his preheated hotplates. To this, he added a handful of wild chives snipped into toothpick lengths, some crushed wild garlic, and a few smoked chili peppers he had canned in the summer. The entire parking lot filled with a mouth-watering aroma. Whatever their concerns, Disco was quickly massaging them away with the power of hunger. A handful of morels, a sprig of mint, a pinch of fresh sea salt, each ingredient slashed larger and larger openings in the adults’ armor of denial. The finishing blow was the delicate sea bass fillet that he held out at eye level for just a second before plunging it into the well-seasoned bath of flavor. Disco was pretty sure he saw one woman actually crying before the entire crowd rushed up to his inviting kitchen on wheels.

In reality, the food was still out there, but in the years since “The Great Undoing,” the people had either forgotten where it was, forgotten what to do with it once they found it, or just couldn’t be bothered to care. It all depended on geography and politics. Those who still lived in the bigger cities (or what was left of them) were more than happy to live off the subsidized food provided by the SHINE Corporation. As the de facto government and military for the devastated country, the SHINE Corporation had the power and the profit margins in place to make the general population believe it needed them for daily sustenance. Those who lived in smaller towns or traveled in nomadic tribes were more likely to be outside the sphere of SHINE’s influence, but the company was constantly working to expand its reach, sending out armed squads to “market” their special brand of cuisine. The SHINE Corporation produced one thing: SHINE, the Super Healthy International Nutrition Extract. This unctuous concoction had made them the third largest corporation on the planet, bigger than the GDPs of all but six countries. They even had their own Olympics team.

The problem with SHINE was that it was disgusting. Made from a concentrated slurry of chemicals, garbage and whatever “natural” sources were unfortunate enough to tumble into the collection tanks, the paste had no taste, no odor and next to no nutritional value outside what had been deemed necessary by the latest government regulations, regulations which were set forth by the very conglomerate that produced it. In addition to all that nonsense, it was also highly addictive. It was pale gray ooze with the texture of a damp sponge. And it effectively bankrupted every single community it touched. Unfortunately, it was also the only option available to a vast majority of a population that was struggling just to survive.

Disco pulled the sauté pan from the burner and slid the vegetable scraps off his cutting board into the adjacent compost bin with a practiced flourish. This signaled that the seminar was about to begin. The children in front looked up wide-eyed as Disco twirled the handle of a chef’s knife between the second and third fingers of his right hand.

“Cooking,” he began, “is fun. There’s a certain feeling of accomplishment you get when you’re able to make something that keeps you healthy, that keeps you alive”

He snatched a small round of bread from a wire basket hanging just to the left of his open truck window and quickly turned it into a half dozen even slices with his knife. As he finished, he sheathed the knife back in its place on the dark leather bandolier criss-crossing his chest and selected a flat-edged knife nestled a few positions below it. With this, he dug into a beat-up plastic tub of pungent goat cheese and swiped a scant dollop across each slice of bread.

“Pass me that ladybug,” he said to the little blonde girl who was now fond of fennel. As she picked it up, Disco made a high-pitched buzzing sound that made her bobble the apple and giggle.

Disco took the apple and, after another stealthy knife exchange, swiftly sliced it into paper-thin wedges that he fanned out on the bread rounds. Wiping his long, dark hair from his eyes with the back of his left hand, he reached down into a small satchel on his belt and brought up fingers full of a glittery powder that he dusted across the bread like stars falling from the sky.

“But more importantly, cooking is easy.” he declared. Disco pushed his cutting board towards the waiting children and motioned them to grab a snack.

As the children happily, and greedily, munched away at their sudden bounty, Disco raised his head and eyed the back of the crowd.

“I can juggle these knives, make my griddle erupt like a volcano and carve the most intricate fruit sculptures you’ll ever see, but wouldn’t it be better if you could do it all yourself?” he asked.

“Who’s got time for all that?” questioned a man leaning against the half-collapsed windmill still haunting the eighth green.

“Am I cutting into your spa time, sir?”

The crowd chuckled in approval.

“I think we can all agree that time is the one thing we all have plenty of in this day and age.” replied Disco.

And he was right. Most of the American industries so relied upon just a few years ago had since been destroyed or abandoned. The earthquakes and floods not only carved all new transportation routes across the country, but their cumulative effects all but crippled the communication systems as well. Government interference stripped any sense of checks and balances from the energy and agricultural industries, which left them ripe for failure once the fossil fuels dried up and the international suppliers suddenly became selfish. Mix in a few domestic environmental accidents, some political terrorism, a couple well-timed conspiracy theories and an awkward insult directed at a foreign dignitary’s homely girlfriend and there was the recipe for a societal breakdown that rivaled the days ofEurope’s feudal system.

It wasn’t so much that people didn’t want to build cars and design computers and discover new species. They just couldn’t anymore. The resources were gone. Brain surgeons became barbers, truck drivers turned to salvage work and anyone who hadn’t learned a trade or developed a talent soon became a thief. Or worse.

Being resourceful was what had built the country in the beginning, but somewhere along the timeline, the people lost the pride of self-reliance and turned instead to the temptation of convenience. Other countries made their clothes. Other people did their yard and housework. And machines, oh, the machines. They made it so a person barely had to wake up to seem like a human being.

Machines were programmed to make the coffee, cook the meals, wash the clothes, the cars and the kids. Machines answered mail, played music and built homes. No one could be troubled enough to even consider caring.

So, the situation came full circle for a nation founded on brotherhood to a society focused on self-satisfaction and back to a culture of necessity where individuals were favored for their ability to contribute to the greater cause of survival rather than their ability to be famous for getting drunk on live television.

Or something like that.

Disco didn’t put much energy into diagramming the past. He was a realist. He had his truck and his talent and he did what he could for the people he encountered. For the inhabitants of Myrtle Beach, that meant creating wonderful dishes like buckwheat noodles with a peppery chickweed pesto, braised rabbit loin over sweet potato hash and something he liked to call the “supersalad,” a combination of purslane, lamb’s quarters and dandelion greens topped with a tangy dressing made from steeped juniper berries, mint and pickled prickly pear cactus mixed with fresh grated ginger root.

The greens from this particular salad were, in another life, the type of things folks paid professional landscapers to destroy. Even though they were three of the most hardy, most nutritious wild plants in the world, an entire toxic trade had been constructed around the premise of eradicating them in favor of boring, useless lawn grass.

To accompany his meals, Disco served steaming pots of chicory root coffee and sage tea. He offered refreshing cups of water from fresh-melt streams infused with pineapple weed and wintergreen. For dessert, there were lemon verbena cookies with vanilla bean dipping sauce and a goat’s milk ice cream studded with ripe bearberries.

By the time he was done cooking and presenting this lavish spread, he barely had the energy to hawk his wares to the waiting crowd. Disco put on his game face, cracked his knuckles and raised his arms in victory.

“Who has the need to feed?” he bellowed.

The residents, having already been tantalized and entertained, were more than ready to partake of the fresh-cooked food. They wanted to take home even a touch of the magic they had just witnessed and quickly formed a line under the watchful eye of the faded visage of Dewey adorning Disco’s truck.

Disco had no need for money, having gathered, grown or been otherwise gifted the ingredients for the evening’s feast, so he traded his goods for information, stories and memorable trinkets. The dashboard of his Plumpies truck was littered with loving drawings and tiny toys given to him by satisfied and grateful children.

“What would you want for that fish plate you made earlier?” asked a skinny man in his early twenties, wearing a pair of cut-off khakis and a Batman t-shirt. His thick drawl made the last word seem like a dying fire siren, just one long consonant er-er-er.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” answered Disco.

“Alright. Did you know there used to be upwards of seven billion people on this here planet? But now, on account of the Undoing and whatnot, best guess puts us at something south of three billion.”

“I did not know that.” Disco stated, even though he did. “Here’s your dinner,” he continued, sliding the plate beneath the faded yellow logo on the man’s shirt.

Next up was a large woman who had waited impatiently through the last exchange for her turn. Her curly auburn hair jutted out from her head in every possible direction, looking like it was desperately trying to escape. The striped green blouse she wore was stretched thin and struggling to do its job and her hands were swollen from the humidity rising off the asphalt.

“You got any tacos?” she blurted.

“And what exactly is a taco?” Disco inquired with an impish grin.

“Heck if I know,” the woman responded, “I just heard the word once. Sounded fancy so I figured it’d probably taste good. My pappy always talked about that kind of junk.”

“How about some fried pheasant instead?”

The woman’s mouth hung open like a broken screen door. “Is that food?”

Disco smiled. “This one’s on me” he said as he handed the woman a grease-spotted bag from under the counter.

To appease the others in line while they waited, Disco grabbed a handful of carefully folded paper packets in a range of colors and tossed them into the crowd. The blue ones contained crushed, dried herbs and flowers. The white ones were pre-mixed salt and pepper with a bit of chili powder. And the red ones were actually tiny meltaway candies made from arrowroot starch and sassafras.

By the time everyone was fed, night had fallen onMyrtle Beach. The parking lot was lit by a few well-placed candles and the brief illuminations of scattered fireflies. Disco had taken in quite the haul. He was now the proud owner of, among other trinkets: a broken yellow yo-yo, three empty cigar boxes, a small wax-sealed jar of bathtub whiskey and countless stories about the people and past of the sleepy beach town and all its nearby neighbors.

The man in the Batman shirt approached Disco as he was wiping off his counter space in preparation of shutting down. “If you like, my dad and I could put you up for the night. We run the local saloon and have more than enough room for you.”

“Well, I appreciate the offer…” Disco’s voice trailed off, waiting for a name to finish his thought.

“Oh, I’m Parker. Parker Hewitt.”

“Nice to meet you, Parker Hewitt. My name’s Disco Freeman and I’d love to partake in your luxurious accommodations and general hospitality. However, I prefer to sleep out under the stars and I don’t like to be too far from my livelihood here.”

“Well, you could always park the truck behind the saloon.” Parker replied.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just sleep here.”

“Suit yourself,” Parker answered, clearly confused by Disco’s preference for outdoor living. “If it goes too cold for you, there’s probably a backseat in one of them abandoned cars that the raccoons haven’t torn into yet.” Parker added, poking a thumb toward the back of the lot.

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

Parker started to say something else, then thought better of it. He stood there awkwardly for a moment or two before offering a lazy wave as he shrugged off into the night.

About two hours later, after shivering uncontrollably on the ground outside his truck, with only a woven blanket made from extruded strips of recycled water bottles given to him by a little old lady outside Syracuse in exchange for two fried turkey eggs and a small sorrel-seasoned lamb shank, Disco commandeered the floor of a 1999 Pontiac Montana, the only minivan in the lot that still had all its windows intact.