“Thanks,” he said, shaking my hand, and I realized that what I’d expected to be random and chaotic was well-organized instead. It wasn’t just about hanging out—they were working, building a makeshift community—with a first aid station, a child-care station, even a library: two senior citizens stacking books and magazines on a picnic table across from the Port-o-John. Tents were propped in circles, sleeping bags spread out over tarps, and as I moved closer to the shoreline two more college girls approached, both wearing yellow armbands with “Security” printed on them, a lanyard and a whistle hanging on each of their necks.
I felt tempted to warn them that the cops were on the way, all their work soon to be dismantled and smashed, but doubted it would change their actions. The beach was charged with cooperation and visions for a better world—who was I to be the town crier, shouting out their doom?
I stopped the two Security women and asked about a designated spot for Entertainment. I couldn’t imagine Jill being anywhere else.
“That’s theater and media,” one woman said, pointing fifty yards down the shore, where a group was building a platform, their glow sticks bobbing. A second woman, the taller of the two, eyed me skeptically, her gaze jumping from curiosity to concern.
“I don’t know you. I didn’t see you at any of the affinity meetings.”
“A friend’s daughter told me to come. Do you know Jill Clyde?”
They exchanged glances, the shorter one whispering to Ms. Suspicious.
“There’s a Jill here, but we don’t know her last name. Is she one of the high school kids?” Suspicious asked.
“She’s a drama queen, right?” the other one said.
“That’s her!”
“Yeah, she’s here,” Suspicious said, as if it were bad news. “But she’s not serious. This isn’t a game, you know.”
“Right. In twenty years we’ll be underwater.”
They both smiled. “That’s so Jeremy!” Suspicious said. “Look, we need to be careful. There are narcs here looking to start trouble. They do that, you know. They incite violence and then arrest you when you respond.”
“Most of the high school kids are building the stage. Maybe you can find her over there,” the other one said, and off they walked, their glow sticks bouncing with their strides.
“Hey, Donnie, over here!” a voice called, and I saw Uncle Dan trudging through the sand, a tall stack of pizza boxes balanced in his arms. I rushed over to help.
“The girls ordered twenty pies this morning,” he said, looking around and counting people in his head. “They’ll need a hell of lot more than that.”
I grabbed half the boxes and followed him toward the Food tent as people began splintering off from their groups, gravitating toward the scent of warm food. Anyone in need of a smile should arrive somewhere with a pizza—wherever, whoever, they’ll be happy to see you. I couldn’t recall a single delivery I’d done over the years in which someone wasn’t grateful to find me at their door with a large cheese pie, and this time was no different. “Jaybird Pizza has arrived!” Uncle Dan announced, and even the bearded climate change guy ambled over for a slice.
We set up the food and stepped aside, my uncle watching with pride. I once asked him why he’d opened a pizzeria and, not surprisingly, he tied it back to the war.
“Before I was drafted, I wanted to be an engineer,” he’d told me. “Bridges, dams, roads—I was going to be that guy in the white shirt and tie wearing a hard hat managing all these great, heavy projects, but over there—seeing all those bridges bombed to shit, the bulldozers demolishing these sad little huts to build roads for our trucks—I knew I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t that guy anymore. Then one day a buddy and I brought a pizza from the mess hall to this local family we’d befriended, and you should have seen the smiles on those kids’ faces. Unbelievable—and this was Army pizza. My buddy and I—Jason Bird, the guy I told you about—we both felt it right there—we were pizza guys.”
I spotted Jill’s friend Beth in the queue waiting for her slice, but Jill herself wasn’t in sight. Uncle Dan nudged my side and handed me a roll of tens and twenties wadded together with a rubber band.
“When you see Amy’s kid, give her the money back. I can’t charge them for this,” he said.
He looked up at the clear night sky, admiring the shining darts of light illuminating the dark. A sea plane flew over the beach with a banner: Another World is Possible flapping in the night air.
“We’ve been lucky, you and I,” he said.
“Maybe we have,” I said, an admission that felt strange and counter-intuitive, like a devout Muslim agreeing that Muhammed was just “okay.” But I could see how fortunate I was. I turned and hugged Uncle Dan, whose body tightened even as his arms welcomed the embrace. We weren’t hugging men, far from it, but I patted his back, kissed his cheek, and told him how thankful I was that he’d saved me.
“Maybe we saved each other,” he whispered, his hand grasping the back of my neck. “Who the hell knows?”
His breath was hot on my face, redolent with the slightest hint of garlic, and I felt like a kid again, pretending to be asleep while he checked my room, making sure I was okay before turning out the lights and heading to bed himself. I patted those broad, strong shoulders which, years back, had discovered a pizza box on his front stoop and had carried the box—and me—into his home. Suddenly I knew it: I’d take over the Jaybird and look after Nancy if or when Uncle
