Free Drop City by T. C. Boyle

pressure of the little things, the essentials, the cooking and the cleaning and the repairs, and while it was nice to think everybody would pitch in during a crisis, it didn't always work out that way.
    And this _was__ a crisis, whether people seemed to realize it or not--the toilets in the main house were overflowing and there was a coil of human waste behind every rock, tree and knee-high scrap of weed on the property, and that was primitive, oh yes indeed. _In__voluntarily primitive. Nobody even had the sense to bury it, let alone dig a latrine. They didn't think, didn't want to get hung up on details. They'd dropped out. They were here. That was enough, and the less said about it the better. But before long, as Marco knew from experience, the county health inspector would have plenty to say, and it wouldn't reflect a higher consciousness either.
    He was down in the trench, waist-deep, flinging dirt, when Alfredo came across the yard with a fruit jar of lemonade in one hand and a spade in the other. Marco saw him coming, but he kept digging, because for the moment at least digging was his affliction, his tic, the process that made his blood flow and his brain go numb. Simplest thing in the world: the pick rises, the pick falls; the shovel goes in, the dirt comes out.
    “Hey,” Alfredo said, and he was showing his fine pointed teeth in a smile that cut a horizontal slash in the wiry black superstructure of his beard, “I thought you could use something to drink--and maybe some help too.”
    Well, he could. And he appreciated the three precious ice cubes bobbing in the super-sweetened fresh-squeezed lemonade too, but there were probably twenty people at Drop City he'd rather spend the afternoon with. Nothing against Alfredo, except that he lacked a sense of humor--it was as if someone had run a hot wire through his brain, fusing all the appreciation cells in a dead smoking lump--and when he did manage to find something funny, he ran it into the ground, repeating the punch line over and over and snickering in a bottomless catarrhal wheeze that made you think he was choking on his own phlegm. He was older too--twenty-nine, thirty maybe--and that was a problem in itself, because he used his age advantage like a bludgeon any time there was a difference of opinion. His favorite phrases were: “Well, you were probably still in high school then” and “I don't want to tell you what to do, but--”
    Alfredo got down into the trench, stripped off his shirt to reveal a pale flight of ribs, and started digging, and that was all right. They worked in silence for the first few minutes, the penetrable earth at their feet, the smell of it in their nostrils like the smell of fossilized bone, bloodless and neutral, the sun overhead, sweat pocking the dust of their shoes. At some point, there was a sudden high whinnying shout from the direction of the pool, a splash, two splashes, and then Alfredo, in the way of making idle conversation, was asking about his name. “Marco,” he said, “is that Italian?”
    “Yeah, I suppose--originally, that is.” Marco straightened up and swiped a forearm across his brow, and what he should have done was dig a bandanna out of his pack, but it was too late now. He'd cool off in the pool, that's what he'd do--but later. Much later. “My father named me for Marco Polo.”
    “Really? Far out.” There was the crunch of the shovel cutting into the earth. “What'd he name your brother--Christopher?”
    Marco acknowledged the stab at humor with a foreshortened smile--he'd been responding to that joke since elementary school. “I don't have a brother.”
    “My father's Italian,” Alfredo said, and he grunted as he heaved a load of dirt up over his shoulder. “My mother's Mexican. That's why I can take the heat--like this? This doesn't bother me at all.”
    Right. But Marco was thinking of his own father, the man he'd known only as a voice over the long-distance wire these past two years and