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No, the man said. The infrastructure is in bad shape.
Oh, the boy said. Will they ever fix it?
Ever is a long time, the man said.
But they said they would, the boy said. They appropriated funds. They’re investing in it.
Where did you get that?
It was something you said a long time ago.
Oh, said the man.
Should I be scared? the boy asked. To go on the roads? And to go on planes?
Just some planes, the man said. You can still go on planes mostly.
I’m glad, the boy said. Otherwise, how would they feed toddlers.
What, said the man.
The boy flew a piece of food toward his mouth. He made an airplane sound.
Oh, the man said.
It was a joke, the boy said.
Of course, the man said. Jokes. Yes. Ash fell from the sky and the man coughed.
Jeez, the boy muttered.
*
Elsewhere on the road lots of cars were driving. Some ash gray, some bone white. Some black as the obsidian waters. The boy could not remember a time before the word obsidian was something he encountered daily. Some cars white as the nightmare things that the man saw in his dreams, lapping in the stilldark caves with their alabaster bones. Some cars red. Red as the angry scorch of fire. Others of the cars were blue. Lead paint could be blue. You could ingest lead paint and die. Other cars were yellow. Yellow as jaundice, a deadly disease.
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This seems very bleak, the boy said. Maybe unduly bleak.
Ash fell down on them from somewhere. Where is the ash coming from, the boy said.
It’s to show this is a post-apocalyptic wasteland, the man said.
Do I have a name, said the boy.
Possibly, the man said. You talk too much.
Am I talking, the boy said. Where are my quotation marks.
We don’t have those any more, the man said. They were a luxury of the before times. Anyway this is supposed to be about infrastructure.
Right, the boy said.
And how bleak it is, the man said. Some more ash fell from the sky. It fell in a bleak manner. The man coughed blood into the snow. There was snow there also. To make things bleaker.
*
The man cursed God, but God had died long ago, right about the same time that Eisenhower had built the interstate highway system.
They saw a figure coming down the road toward them. Walking a jagged line. Wearing an old uniform. Who is it, said the boy. Should we wait and see?
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Let’s wait and see, said the man.
It was Dwight D. Eisenhower. I built these roads, he said. But now they are too old, and the climate is changing, and we have not invested adequately. Also, God is dead.
We covered that, the man said. He had a flare gun and he brandished it.
Don’t shoot the flare gun, Eisenhower said. Flares used to be beside the roads when they repaired the roads. But now no repairs will ever come.
*
The man shaded his eyes and looked to the horizon, where the bridges were. The man remembered when the bridges’ condition had been downgraded from good to fair. Fair was still fair, but it was not ideal.
Fair isn’t bad, though, said the boy. Or is it.
It’s bad, the man said.
But it says fair.
That’s true.
Is it?
He coughed.
Which one of us is talking now?
I don’t know.
*
Compare us to other countries, the man said. We compare unfavorably.
That’s true, the boy said. But it is improving. Last year, the number of bridges in need of repairs decreased. We’ve gone up from a D+ to a C-.
The man spat. Don’t let that get in the way of feeling bleak about all the aging infrastructure. It’s older than some politicians.
No it isn’t, said the boy.
No it isn’t.
The politicians are older.
That’s true. They kept walking as the ash fell.
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A piece of road slid off the cliff down into the sea. A large boulder the size of a small boulder. The man and the boy watched it slide. It disappeared in the dark water. The infrastructure was in bad condition, and this was Cormac McCarthy’s “The Infrastructure.” The road wound along the ocean. Along the sheer loess. Past the midden heaps. In the dark it waited for repair to come. Repair had not come in years. Not in decades. All was black and asphalt.
Sun rose over cracked asphalt. Road waited for repair. Would repair come? Road cursed God. Appropriations. Who allowed this to happen? Whose budget could be throttled? Infrastructure sat crumbling. Infrastructure waited. It remembered a long time back. There had been a week. Infrastructure Week. It seemed ludicrous now. A mockery. The infrastructure shuddered and waited, large cracks forming in it.
*
Is it okay to go on the road, the boy said.
No, the man said. The infrastructure is in bad shape.
Oh, the boy said. Will they ever fix it?
Ever is a long time, the man said.
But they said they would, the boy said. They appropriated funds. They’re investing in it.
Where did you get that?
It was something you said a long time ago.
Oh, said the man.
Should I be scared? the boy asked. To go on the roads? And to go on planes?
Just some planes, the man said. You can still go on planes mostly.
I’m glad, the boy said. Otherwise, how would they feed toddlers.
What, said the man.
The boy flew a piece of food toward his mouth. He made an airplane sound.
Oh, the man said.
It was a joke, the boy said.
Of course, the man said. Jokes. Yes. Ash fell from the sky and the man coughed.
Jeez, the boy muttered.
*
Elsewhere on the road lots of cars were driving. Some ash gray, some bone white. Some black as the obsidian waters. The boy could not remember a time before the word obsidian was something he encountered daily. Some cars white as the nightmare things that the man saw in his dreams, lapping in the stilldark caves with their alabaster bones. Some cars red. Red as the angry scorch of fire. Others of the cars were blue. Lead paint could be blue. You could ingest lead paint and die. Other cars were yellow. Yellow as jaundice, a deadly disease.
This seems very bleak, the boy said. Maybe unduly bleak.
Ash fell down on them from somewhere. Where is the ash coming from, the boy said.
It’s to show this is a post-apocalyptic wasteland, the man said.
Do I have a name, said the boy.
Possibly, the man said. You talk too much.
Am I talking, the boy said. Where are my quotation marks.
We don’t have those any more, the man said. They were a luxury of the before times. Anyway this is supposed to be about infrastructure.
Right, the boy said.
And how bleak it is, the man said. Some more ash fell from the sky. It fell in a bleak manner. The man coughed blood into the snow. There was snow there also. To make things bleaker.
*
The man cursed God, but God had died long ago, right about the same time that Eisenhower had built the interstate highway system.
They saw a figure coming down the road toward them. Walking a jagged line. Wearing an old uniform. Who is it, said the boy. Should we wait and see?
Let’s wait and see, said the man.
It was Dwight D. Eisenhower. I built these roads, he said. But now they are too old, and the climate is changing, and we have not invested adequately. Also, God is dead.
We covered that, the man said. He had a flare gun and he brandished it.
Don’t shoot the flare gun, Eisenhower said. Flares used to be beside the roads when they repaired the roads. But now no repairs will ever come.
*
The man shaded his eyes and looked to the horizon, where the bridges were. The man remembered when the bridges’ condition had been downgraded from good to fair. Fair was still fair, but it was not ideal.
Fair isn’t bad, though, said the boy. Or is it.
It’s bad, the man said.
But it says fair.
That’s true.
Is it?
He coughed.
Which one of us is talking now?
I don’t know.
*
Compare us to other countries, the man said. We compare unfavorably.
That’s true, the boy said. But it is improving. Last year, the number of bridges in need of repairs decreased. We’ve gone up from a D+ to a C-.
The man spat. Don’t let that get in the way of feeling bleak about all the aging infrastructure. It’s older than some politicians.
No it isn’t, said the boy.
No it isn’t.
The politicians are older.
That’s true. They kept walking as the ash fell.
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