It Could Be Worse

It Could Be Worse By Max Quayle

I am sitting on oak brown picnic table; rain is falling inches from my back. The heavy tarp which I have strung above my head is slowly filling with water. I am curious to see if it will hold. The sound of the rain falling leads me to wonder if, like snowflakes, no two raindrops are identical. True or not they certainly pelt the leaves and ground with distinctly varying thuds, thunks, scuds and plunks. The sounds are not rhythmic but are somehow musical; like a broken tune with unlimited and constantly changing meter. As I turn back to my computer I realize that my wife, and our two small children have been camping for 5 weeks now, and this is only the second rain. Odd. We have been squirming around, between a rock and hard place, for about twice that long. Homeless. The word has a solemnity about it, suggesting that a force of significant magnitude would be necessary to cause it. Three months ago we were living in spacious comfort, rent free, and enjoying the rewards of my hard work. Stonemasonry is nothing if not fickle. I stretch my back upward and feel the shadow each stone has left upon it ripple. Volume wise, your average rock is a fairly insignificant thing, it’s the density that’ll get you. I breathe a deep breath and sympathize with that famous straw hauling camel - I wonder how long I’ll last. A Tracy Chapman tune surfaces momentarily: “…Body’s to old for workin’/Body’s to young to look like his…” Small things straws. There is a fear sitting upon my left shoulder, and the confident little guy who normally resides upon my right, hasn’t been seen of late. As I lower my arms an all too familiar antiposture kinks my frame. Bent. I remember setting out in a high entrepreneurial flourish 6 years ago, charging 7 dollars an hour to paint and rake, and do whatever – just to be my own boss, to be off the employment grid – so long as I could do it my way, at my pace, with my style... I didn’t know fear, then. Now, it seems omni present. The rain is steadily increasing. It has changed pitch, from thud and plunk to clatter and splash. Pools are forming around the main tent. I notice the heavy-duty extension cord running from the power post into a low unzipped portion of the tent door. It is mostly under water. The warm light glowing from inside seems out of place. Home fire. Should I unplug it, just until the rain stops? Across the lake from our campground are a series of picturesque New England homes, owned, I imagine by picturesque New England people. Home-full. There, they come in from the rain, and lie at least a foot off the ground to sleep – they rarely, if ever find they are chewing a mysterious ball of grit nestled deeply in their eggs. They probably make love for its own sake, not just to stave off the darkness and feel less alone. I hate them... To my right our two useless vehicles are parked, mocking me. One, the big red work van that carried my tools and high hopes these last four years sits, cankered with rust. It is three weeks overdue for inspection. Cop bait. Its bald tires grin at me in the light of my lantern. Our SUV is in much better condition, but no less immobile, I lost the stupid title and

we are here partly due to the incredibly slow bureaucracy of the DMV. They don’t care. They probably live across the lake. Black. I feel my mood descend a note deeper. Why can’t I get a break? Even my neighbors here at camp have trailers and refrigerators, and proper commodes – while I sit here drinking strange waters and passing unknown aromas into the night. The rain thickens another degree. What is that smell? A scent like wet dog engulfs me; it clings to my nasal cavity… Oh, it’s me, I nearly forgot about the hygiene thing – a day late, and literally a dollar short for the pay-per-use showers – human biology is a fairly amazing thing. Wretched. Peering into the blackness just beyond my small lanterns light, I wonder what part of life I got wrong. With my left hand, I reach across the table. My Swiss army knife feels cold, and fierce. I always keep the blade sharp; you never know when you’ll need to cut something… As I unfold the main blade, light glances off at odd angles. I run my thumb along the edge, the way my dad always told me not to…it nips at the ridges of my thumb tip. Ahhh, the cool steel doesn’t care how hard I press. I am vaguely aware of my right hand turning up the cuff of my left sleeve. My fingers feel cold as they brush lightly against my wrist. From the tent, I hear my little son stir and cough a bit. He’s probably cold. What kind of a fool would keep an eighteen-month old in a tent in the New England autumn? “Every thing all right, Mom?” I call to my wife. “A little gas, I think,” she replies, with voice rough from too much fresh air. “’Kay”, I’ll be in a bit.” Nothing. I really don’t like people who let conversations just die. It makes me feel ineligible for something. Unworthy. Deborah has been with me seven years now, and not one complaint. I must be a pretty great husband. I lie, sometimes, near her and listen to her breathing and wonder what she thinks. Sometimes I wish… I carefully hand myself the pocketknife. A tired, weak thought rises in my mind: “Count your blessings…”. I don’t even hear it. My eye has caught hold of the blade again. It’s not natural. Steel is the end product of a lot of processes, there are things steel can do that ancient men couldn’t even imagine with copper, brass and rocks. I deftly raise the knife up to my throat. As I press the blade against the soft fleshy part, just below my chin, I wonder how things got this bad. I press the blade and drag it down the length of my neck. I feel a warm sensation as hundreds of tiny hairs are split from the root and fall silently onto the muddy ground at my feet. I hate shaving. Those lake dwellers use electric razors, I bet, or at least hot water, and cream. I stroke my neck with steel again and again, each time increasing the angle to the skin while steadily pressing. As I finish, I notice the light in the tent dim, and go black. Finally. A few more painful scrapes and the job is done, I moisten a paper towel with stale water from an old re-used Poland springs bottle and lightly tap my neck. Drawing the towel under the lanterns light I see several dark and a few light red streaks of blood. Nice close shave. I wipe the knife-edge with the damp towel and listen to the rain as it slows. Soon I will retire to a deflating air mattress and the warmth of my wife’s body. I do not know, and cannot see the future – and tonight the past leers up haunting. I carefully set in order the table, close and stow the knife; dim the lantern and make my way across the muddy ground. As I unplug the extension cord I feel the nip of wet lightning as

a low grade shock vibrates my arm. I am grounded in a puddle. I wrap the cord and hang in on a a low branch and flounder toward the tent flaps. As I slip into my side of the soft sleeping bag for two, I realize my one indulgence: The present.