RISOTTO, MOUNT BARREN
In the supermarket just off the interstate highway we found nothing of any value.
In the supermarket just off the interstate highway we found nothing of any value, only bare shelves and shreds of plastic that drifted lightly across the floor in the draught like small ghosts on their errands. It was an obvious spot. But outside, around back near the loading dock, there was an upturned mobility scooter almost covered in the yellowing grass that encroached on the parking lot, and in its basket was a small bag of arborio rice, a jar of onion flakes and a tin of asparagus. Carlo got a faraway look in his eyes when we found it. "Risotto," he exhaled.
We'd planned to head back to camp along the train line, grab as many wild tomatoes as we could and keep an eye out for birds, but Carlo had a new plan. "Charlton General Store," he said with a gleam in his eye. "It's not close," I said, but we turned up the dusty main street away from the train line anyhow. "So long, good railroad," I called softly.
It was four kilometres by crow to Charlton, which had been a little one street town and was now a no street nothing. "I figure," Carlo told us, "that the General Store might still have some stuff in it. Because it's such a pain to get to. Who'd go there?" Beautiful, simple Carlo, ignoring, as always, that looting it wouldn't have been a pain to the people who had once lived at Charlton. We progressed slowly over the storm-shifted slabs of tarmac and erosion trenches, climbing awkwardly up the deep riven gullies of stone and red mud. 150 metres from the Meroo Road intersection we saw a mob of kangaroos and Karen said "whoa, now," and unshouldered her rifle, but they smelled us and bounded off.
"Tell us what else goes in a risotto, Carlo," I urged him to keep our spirits up.
"I'd love a bulb of garlic," he said thoughtfully. "That'd be a start. Some white wine. I'm not counting on it. A little parmesan cheese. Even the powdered stuff in a packet would do. Olive oil. Some fresh peas." He stuck out his jaw and walked ahead of us as he came to the end of his list. That was Carlo for you. Emotional.
The sun was low as we arrived at the harlequin quadrangle of grass and concrete that Charlton had once called a main street. We picked across it, the sky a billboard for deep blue, the air thick with the smell of rotting animal. Inside the general store a gruesome diorama of flayed possums had been set by a hunchbacked woman with grotesquely thick and curly hair, maybe a wig, who sat silently behind the counter turning a knife in her hands. The horizontal rays of the low sun flashed gold off her blade and it was the only way we saw her. "C'mon in," she creaked. Water dripped from the rafters. We decided to travel on.
We shortcutted back through thick bush, navigating by Mount Barren which rose up to our southeast like the slouching hat of a god who'd fallen asleep in the long afternoon and left his creations to wither. Half an hour from Charlton the trail widened. In a clearing was a supermarket semi trailer, its rear doors yawning outwards. Nearby three men lounged around an ancient campfire. All shot dead. We ventured excitedly into the trailer, flashlights raised aloft in pre-emptive celebration of our good fortune, and found boxes of tupperware containers, disposable napkins, stationery, clothes pegs, rolls of cling wrap, air freshener, garbage bag reels. "Nothing to eat," Karen observed tersely. That was Karen for you. Observant.
The rest of the way home Carlo tried to reframe his story. "At least we found rice," he said, clearing his throat. "And onion and asparagus. We have salt. Salt and pepper. So that's no problem." And maybe he was right. We could be grateful for a bag of rice. We had been before. When we returned to camp they would say to us: you found rice! You found asparagus! And Carlo could still say: I can make something out of this, with a little salt and pepper.
Thanks for reading INFINITE GOSSIP! If you're a free subscriber, upgrading will let you comb the archives, which contain some gems (in my opinion). Including CORRIDORS OF NEW SOUTH WALES, which this reviewer of BLUE NIGHT AT THE CULT said was one of his favourites of all time(!):
Now reading: MONICA, the new book from the legend Daniel Clowes. If you’ve ever read or seen undisputed classic Ghost World, don’t let his latter hot streak pass you by! Monica (and Patience, and The Death Ray) might be the best work he’s ever done. And if you’ve never checked out his books/don’t like graphic novels, this is a 10/10 masterpiece.
i think this story features an unreliable narrator, seems like there is something they are not telling us
This is incredible! One of my favorites, already.