It is 10:40 PM. I am sitting in a supermarket security office with another survivor. We met today, and until this moment, he has gone by 'Ryan' only. He is a man with too much nervous energy, constantly biting his nails, or working away at a terribly broken pair of glasses with wire and a small phillips-head screwdriver. I produce my recorder and iPhone, and ask if I can ask him some questions for my ongoing memoir of the great death. He chuckles at first, shaking his head in disbelief, but then grows serious when he sees I actually have juice for my phone. I snap his picture <insert here> and flip on my clip-on reading light to take notes. (my interjections omitted)
...(in a loud but insistent whisper) Hey, man! Douse that light. You want to bring 'em all in here? Use your head.
...I don't care if it helps you write. You want to write - do it in the daylight. You really serious about this? Waste of juice, you ask me. If I had a working iPhone, I'd be listening to Modest Mouse, or CCR, not taking strangers' pictures.
...I already told you. Ryan.
...(exasperated) Ryan Alexander Canfield. Good enough?
...what is there to tell? (pause) Fine. Ask away.
...I'm 29. Birthday's in... uh... six weeks? What day is it, anyway? Hold on, let me check my fucking calendar. What kind of questions are these? (he wipes at a perpetually-teary and bloodshot right eye. -ed.)
...About 6' tall. Used to weigh around 190ish. Now? The belt has been taken in a notch or two. Who's to say?
...what did I do? When?
..."before?" Shit, man. Don't see what difference it makes. I had a bunch of jobs. Guess you could say I wasn't 'career minded.' uuuhhh... short order cook. Bike courier. Studied graphic design at college. Shit-load of good that'll do me now. Oh -- built a school once, in Zaire...
...what do I have? Oh, you mean tools of the trade. I picked up this AK-47 in a farmhouse in upstate NY. (it is, in fact, a Chinese Norinco type 56, with fixed wooden stock and folding bayonet. -ed.) No rounds for it right now though... I also have a pistol. Took it out of one of the dead ones' pockets. Guy in Albany said it was made by FN? I dunno. "Fuckin' Nasty." That's right. It's a 9mm. Holds thirteen rounds. I have three. hahahaha.
...Huh? Oh, this? Just some old aluminum softball bat. It's light. It works.
...Can I sleep now? Enough with the questions, man.
...(in a loud but insistent whisper) Hey, man! Douse that light. You want to bring 'em all in here? Use your head.
...I don't care if it helps you write. You want to write - do it in the daylight. You really serious about this? Waste of juice, you ask me. If I had a working iPhone, I'd be listening to Modest Mouse, or CCR, not taking strangers' pictures.
...I already told you. Ryan.
...(exasperated) Ryan Alexander Canfield. Good enough?
...what is there to tell? (pause) Fine. Ask away.
...I'm 29. Birthday's in... uh... six weeks? What day is it, anyway? Hold on, let me check my fucking calendar. What kind of questions are these? (he wipes at a perpetually-teary and bloodshot right eye. -ed.)
...About 6' tall. Used to weigh around 190ish. Now? The belt has been taken in a notch or two. Who's to say?
...what did I do? When?
..."before?" Shit, man. Don't see what difference it makes. I had a bunch of jobs. Guess you could say I wasn't 'career minded.' uuuhhh... short order cook. Bike courier. Studied graphic design at college. Shit-load of good that'll do me now. Oh -- built a school once, in Zaire...
...what do I have? Oh, you mean tools of the trade. I picked up this AK-47 in a farmhouse in upstate NY. (it is, in fact, a Chinese Norinco type 56, with fixed wooden stock and folding bayonet. -ed.) No rounds for it right now though... I also have a pistol. Took it out of one of the dead ones' pockets. Guy in Albany said it was made by FN? I dunno. "Fuckin' Nasty." That's right. It's a 9mm. Holds thirteen rounds. I have three. hahahaha.
...Huh? Oh, this? Just some old aluminum softball bat. It's light. It works.
...Can I sleep now? Enough with the questions, man.
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