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Authors: Dave Eggers
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anything to be free, so she let Ana run on the sidewalk. No negatives motivated her. Josie threatened to take away her Batman sticker book. No effect at all; she knew there were others. Josie told her she’d never watch another DVD; she had no sense of the future so she didn’t care. But if Josie said she’d
get
something, some dessert, some object, she would toe the line. She was the purest sort of materialist: she wanted things, but didn’t care about things.
The restaurant they went to was the cheapest one they could find, but the prices in Alaska were science-fictional. Josie looked at the menu as they were waiting to be seated. Every pickle was twenty dollars. This was what she had tried to avoid. Back home Josie was so tired, so bone-weary of spending money. It crushed the spirit. Every day she found herself at the drugstore or grocery store and always the bill was sixty-three dollars. She would go into Walgreen’s for milk and Ana’s nighttime diapers and somehow would end up spending sixty-three dollars. Always sixty-three dollars. Sixty-three dollars, three or four times a day. How could that be sustained?
But this menu, in the brightly lit hellhole they found themselves in, wanted more than that for dinner. Josie did a rough calculation and knew she would spend eighty dollars for dinner with her two children, neither of whom would care one way or another if they ate here, or ate mud and grubs dug from shallow holes. Ana, always happy to puncture the pretense of any situation, found her opportunity. After the busboy wiped down the table, Ana wiped it again, with her own napkin, saying, “Oooh yeah! Ooooh yeah!” She made it uncomfortably lewd. Josie laughed, so Ana did it three more times.
Paul, though, was in a contemplative mood. He looked at Josie with his ice-priest eyes.
“What?” she said.
He said he didn’t want to talk about it.
“What?” Josie asked again.
Finally he beckoned her closer, promising a secret. Josie leaned over the table and a plate tilted, knocking against the wood.
“Where do the stray dogs go at night?” he whispered, his breath hot in her ear. Josie didn’t know where Paul was going with this so said, “I don’t know.” Immediately she knew this was the wrong answer. His face crumbled and his eyes, so pale and cold, told her he wouldn’t sleep for weeks.
She’d forgotten Paul’s thing with strays. Back at home, he’d heard about stray cats—there was some demented socialite in their town who had made the homeless cats’ plight her calling, and the ads were all over the buses and in the local newspaper, offering shelter and the
HIGHEST QUALITY MEDICAL CARE!
for these strays—and Paul made Josie put milk out every night for any wandering felines who happened to be passing by their home. Josie had also made up a story about how they often dropped by their house on their way home—there was an Underground Railroad for the strays, she’d explained, and they were one of the participating homes. The fiction lasted weeks, and it was Josie’s fault. She’d made up the Railroad, so had to make up the milk-being-available, and had to empty the milk at night, watch Paul check it in the morning, discuss it with him over breakfast, and so how had she forgotten his concern for these wayward animals?
Later, after she’d paid for dinner—eighty-four dollars, everyone involved going to hell—and while Ana ate an ice-cream sandwich on a bench on the boardwalk, Josie clarified some things for Paul while entertaining herself a bit, too. The stray dogs, she said, all live together in a clubhouse. And this clubhouse was built by Alaskan park rangers because the stray dogs, being pack animals, prefer to live together. They’re fed there, she said, three meals a day, by the rangers—omelets for breakfast, sausage for lunch, steak for dinner.
Paul smiled shyly. Someone who did not know Paul would assume he knew this was all made up, that his smile acknowledged the
get
something, some dessert, some object, she would toe the line. She was the purest sort of materialist: she wanted things, but didn’t care about things.
The restaurant they went to was the cheapest one they could find, but the prices in Alaska were science-fictional. Josie looked at the menu as they were waiting to be seated. Every pickle was twenty dollars. This was what she had tried to avoid. Back home Josie was so tired, so bone-weary of spending money. It crushed the spirit. Every day she found herself at the drugstore or grocery store and always the bill was sixty-three dollars. She would go into Walgreen’s for milk and Ana’s nighttime diapers and somehow would end up spending sixty-three dollars. Always sixty-three dollars. Sixty-three dollars, three or four times a day. How could that be sustained?
But this menu, in the brightly lit hellhole they found themselves in, wanted more than that for dinner. Josie did a rough calculation and knew she would spend eighty dollars for dinner with her two children, neither of whom would care one way or another if they ate here, or ate mud and grubs dug from shallow holes. Ana, always happy to puncture the pretense of any situation, found her opportunity. After the busboy wiped down the table, Ana wiped it again, with her own napkin, saying, “Oooh yeah! Ooooh yeah!” She made it uncomfortably lewd. Josie laughed, so Ana did it three more times.
Paul, though, was in a contemplative mood. He looked at Josie with his ice-priest eyes.
“What?” she said.
He said he didn’t want to talk about it.
“What?” Josie asked again.
Finally he beckoned her closer, promising a secret. Josie leaned over the table and a plate tilted, knocking against the wood.
“Where do the stray dogs go at night?” he whispered, his breath hot in her ear. Josie didn’t know where Paul was going with this so said, “I don’t know.” Immediately she knew this was the wrong answer. His face crumbled and his eyes, so pale and cold, told her he wouldn’t sleep for weeks.
She’d forgotten Paul’s thing with strays. Back at home, he’d heard about stray cats—there was some demented socialite in their town who had made the homeless cats’ plight her calling, and the ads were all over the buses and in the local newspaper, offering shelter and the
HIGHEST QUALITY MEDICAL CARE!
for these strays—and Paul made Josie put milk out every night for any wandering felines who happened to be passing by their home. Josie had also made up a story about how they often dropped by their house on their way home—there was an Underground Railroad for the strays, she’d explained, and they were one of the participating homes. The fiction lasted weeks, and it was Josie’s fault. She’d made up the Railroad, so had to make up the milk-being-available, and had to empty the milk at night, watch Paul check it in the morning, discuss it with him over breakfast, and so how had she forgotten his concern for these wayward animals?
Later, after she’d paid for dinner—eighty-four dollars, everyone involved going to hell—and while Ana ate an ice-cream sandwich on a bench on the boardwalk, Josie clarified some things for Paul while entertaining herself a bit, too. The stray dogs, she said, all live together in a clubhouse. And this clubhouse was built by Alaskan park rangers because the stray dogs, being pack animals, prefer to live together. They’re fed there, she said, three meals a day, by the rangers—omelets for breakfast, sausage for lunch, steak for dinner.
Paul smiled shyly. Someone who did not know Paul would assume he knew this was all made up, that his smile acknowledged the
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