Our American King

8 We walked a biking, hiking path between the river and the parkway. No one is about. The Potomac flows on our right without a burden of boats and, to our left, the parkway's pavement is empty of cars. America had run out of oil, the remaining gasoline confiscated and stored underground by the Federal government or in depots guarded by mercenaries in the pay of rich Americans. Near the path, everything is grown up. Fallen limbs stay where they have fallen. Here and there are wrecked cars. A big Greyhound bus looks as if it had been used as living quarters, trash all around and clotheslines to nearby trees. But the bus is empty now. John and I walk. I worry what'll happen if we encounter Patagonians. Even with nothing to steal, we're vulnerable. They might kill us for sport. Or cut off our arms. And all without speaking a word. "We'll walk up to Memorial Bridge and cross there," John says. I think the boatman's unexpected enthusiasm for the idea of an American king has knocked John off balance, making him wonder if he's stumbled onto something truly magical. I eat from Boatman's bag, offering portions to John who is deep in a calculation of possibilities. I don't know how the idea of a king can be bigger than baloney and cheese, but John clearly is distracted. We're losing the day. Although I've finished Boatman's food, still I'm running out of energy. "Can we stop for the night?" John looks at me as if he'd forgotten I was along. "Stop? Yes," he says. "We don't want to go into the District at night. Let's sleep by those trees." Here we are, two Americans of the modern era, stopping to sleep by trees the way my migrating ancestors might've done a thousand years ago at this very spot. Except my ancestors wouldn't be looking in the sprung trunk of a wrecked car, which John does, finding a cheap plastic blue tarp. I ask him if we can put it over us for a blanket but John says the tarp will serve better as a ground cover, to keep the damp and cold from seeping up into our frail bodies. He says he'll look for something to put over us. "No fire tonight?" He doesn't think we should risk the attention it might bring. Fire's a wonderful invention, I think, but, unlike our ancestors, we can't use it. For security reasons. Such is life in the modern era. I ask John if someone can die of misery. "I know I don't have hypothermia but I am so tired and miserable of being cold. My feet hurt and itch and, last time I checked, the skin was cracking." He pats my leg. "No, John, the question wasn't rhetorical.Can a person die from being miserable?" He said he didn't know, then he explained I had chilblains, that's what was causing my skin to crack and itch and hurt. "You have to keep your feet dry." "I'm cold." "Didn't Boatman's food help?" "I suppose. Yes, it helped. I would've been colder without that food. I ate it all, John. I'm so sorry." "No, you offered. I'm just...distracted." "With thoughts of kings?" "Yes." John spreads the blue plastic tarp on the ground to the lee of a burned-out Mercedes SUV. In the twilight we can see fires here and there, across the river and down the way. In deference to John's somber mood, I don't start in again about how we should build our own nice, warm fire. He saw me shivering though and John said he would bring over dead leaves, there were tons of them around and they were dry and would make good insulation. "How are you going to get them?" "Stand up, I'll use the tarp." "I'll help you. John?" "What?" "Are you okay?" "Fine." "If I lost you, I couldn't go on." We took the tarp to the trees and filled it several times, bringing each load to the burned-out car, piling leaves there until we had a mound large enough to cover both of us. We spread the tarp on the ground again and repiled the leavesMartin, David Lozell is the author of 'Our American King ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780743267311 and ISBN 0743267311.