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‘Tis a chilly night, absolutely! Sun now slipping behind our mountain range. We live in the rain shadow, supposedly that patch of land that has become a desert because the mountain range blocks much of the rainfall necessary for plant growth, followed by the temperature. It is easier keeping warm than getting warm once chilled. Hats and socks are a must, and outerwear layered, keep it clean and in good repair. As nightfall approaches, here’s a suggestion: grab a warm body.
We have no power source, no lights, heat, or a chance of survival. I don’t mean to sound so bleak, but suicide is a common occurrence or death by exposure to the elements. This is a dark lifestyle. Literary.
Wintertime is our enemy. (summer is our enemy) Hell, every season presents its unique challenges. Like the cold, the temperatures drop into the low 30s. Hypothermia kicks in when the body temperature falls below 95 degrees Fahrenheit. We all face a potentially dangerous drop in body temperature, caused by prolonged exposure to cold temperatures. So build a bigger fire you say. Unfortunately, we live in the desert. Trees are more precious than gold and equally scarce. We spend ours days where we scavenge for wood. Some days, these scavengers never return, gone. They have wandered off beyond the edge of our settlement or lost in the desert, consumed by nature.
Like the heat, in summer the temperature rises to 100 plus daily for weeks. Time in the sun needs to be monitored and, to make matters worse, a lack of drinkable water to hydrate. Did you know you can recycle your urine?
It is late as the sun hides behind a thickening layer of clouds, rain clouds dark filled with despair. Most members of our mini camp have returned after a day of assigned task, many hunting in the fields for scraps of burnable materials to feed our chiminea while others work in growing, harvesting eatable foliage or trapping critters, and/or in the kitchen preparing our meager meals. This was my day. This was every day.
In our bungalow, conversations exist, repeated from the day, weeks, even months before. The same stories. A few play cards with a marked deck of cards gingerly handled. Some attempt to read their tattered books, saved from the flames, for the second time, by the fading light next to burning embers. We have one member able to serenade us on an aged guitar as he makes up songs, some cheerful, most sad. Redundant, we have heard these songs, these stories over and over.
Number two Scout Team left this morning, Number one Scout Team went south, Team 2 went west. Nine souls left this morning. No reports of either Scout Team returning. It is possible they have settled in for the night, possible.
As the time passes we settle in, a quick count taken. There are twelve on our corner of the roof. Seems we have a few visitors. The snoring suggests members are dozing off to their world of dreams , dreams of dread or hopes. The quiet interrupted by moans, Dale talking in his sleep (sometime the highlight of the day), and quiet conversations.
As the fires fade, the cold grabs each and everyone. Some, awake, drawn toward the fire, like a moth, to light.
My personal unit includes a wall to the east and a wall to the north. I’m in a corner and like most lifted off the floor resting on pallets. You don’t burn pallets. By design. When it rains, and it rains often, rain shadow or not, waters flows beneath the pallets and drains through chiseled out notches in the walls then harvested below and stored in cisterns. Just keep everything off the “floor.” Between storms, we remember to plug the spaces to keep critters out and our limited heat in.
It is never a good idea to sit in front of a chiseled out block where a flicker of light makes for a potential target. Rarely fatal, sitting can be problematic. That and no one wants to be the butt of a butt joke.
It is true one way to stay warm, other than keeping the fire stoked, crawling into an aging sleeping bag, is by sharing heat with a warm body. Our bungalow population increases nightly.
Emily arrives as the temperature drops. She is pleasant both as a conversationalist and heat source. She is married but not, instead, one of many viewed as married-single. Her husband, they say, is best described as a hotheaded jerk, but has surgical skills that are highly valued. Enough about him. She arrives as the sun disappears, the temperature drops, and the rain begins. Another advantage of working in the kitchen, contact with most everyone and scrapes. Not that I would share scrapes or use them to barter.
Emily enters by one of two access routes, this one along the eastern block wall. Smiles. Slips off a layer of outerwear, inner-wear, and then slips into the sleeping bag. Cuddle time. She shares the daily prattle. Her voice feels comforting, her enthusiasm refreshing. Her breath, warm. I doze off.
I am awakened by a disturbance outside, someone yelling, demanding Emily to exit our unit. The shouting awakens other members. Clarity established, as Emily whisper, “that’s my husband.”
“What the f…. does he want?”
I get it. That was a stupid question.
Silence. Maybe he left. Nope, the yelling continues. More demands with interjected threats. The confronter seeks an audience; I assume me, and his woman. Thinking, come on, it’s rainy, windy, chilly, go away.
I have a feeling this would not end well.
Okay Emily, “here is the plan.” You will exit slowly, reassuring him you are on your way home. Take your time. I will exit through the second entrance/exit. And, together, we will see if we can rationally talk this out, convince him you were sleepwalking, got lost?
She exits the sleeping bag, dresses, and moves toward the east exit, clearly shaken. I dress, collect my revolver, check to see if fully loaded, and head toward the west exit. She freezes. “Why the gun?”
Eyes meet, hoping I need not clarify. “Thinking you may have to make a choice.” Return with him or not, seems to be your options. I plan on returning to my sleeping bag. I turn and head toward the exit.
Everyone is awake now, watching, wondering. They realize on any day, this could be them.
I exit, slowly stand, unseen, perhaps thirty feet away. I see Emily has exited, now being grabbed and yanked toward her husband, while he continues to holler.
I moved forward, revolver at my side, out of view, listening as he continues to berate her, to accuse her, still yanking her like a rag doll, until he realized I was now a dozen steps away. She continues to plead, “Nothing happened.”
“What were doing to my wife?”
Shrugged my shoulders, shook my head, knowing there was not much I could add, “Nothing.” True but not helpful. Witting I am not. Suggested, “You need to just calm down and leave.”
I tried to slow my breathing. Both armed, waiting. As dark as it was on the rainy, cloudy night, I attempted to see her face, her expression, seeking to read her thoughts, body language, anything that might give me a clue. Although, ultimately, she may have no say in the encounter's outcome.
Emily, filled with fear. Earl, I think she called him Earl, was under the influence of anger induced adrenaline. Me, shivering in rain soaked clothing, watching his revolver hand for the slightest sign of movement.
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