Free The Subprimes by Karl Taro Greenfeld Page A

safest spot to camp, enjoying, as it did, good visibility of the backyard and the front door.
    The pressing need was water. She guessed there had to be a water source, otherwise this community of subprimes would not have settled in. She did a quick scan of the yard and house for fuel but failed to find any and removed a can of Sterno from her the bike box, unscrewed the top, and lit it, then opened a can of vegetarian chili. She would eat first and then go looking for water. She still had two liters left.
    There was a knock at the door.
    â€œCome in.”
    It was the man in the UPS cap. “I never properly introduced myself.”
    He removed his cap, stringy brown hair falling over his craggy, stern face. “Darren.”
    She stood up, leaving her spoon in the chili can. “I’m Sargam.”
    â€œWe’re all subprimes here, but we’re honest. No drugs. Trying to keep out the criminals and keep the good folks safe.”
    â€œI can appreciate that. How long you been here?”
    â€œFour months. We have it pretty good. There’s water, that’s what I came to tell you about, an aquifer well down the end of Yucca. You need a bucket or a pot or something to haul it out. But it’s good water, clean.”
    Sargam thanked him.
    â€œHow long you plan on staying?”
    â€œI don’t stay anywhere too long.”
    â€œAre you looking for something? You’re not the law, are you? Or working for a credit agency?”
    Sargam shook her head.
    â€œYou don’t look like it, but I had to check.”
    â€œLike I said, I’m just riding,” Sargam said. “Looking to see how we’re all getting by.”
    â€œIf you like, if you’re not too tired from the road, we have a couple folks here who can deejay a little, they’ve got their turntables, some records, and we’ve got a kid who’s pretty good with the drums and another who can pick a little on the guitar. Tonight’s a dance. We only do it once in a while, lest the noise attracts too much attention. You never know when the banks or the owners or whoever holds the note might wake up and run us all off.”
    SHE WASHED UP WITH WATER from the aquifer and then napped for a few minutes before a rooster crowing woke her up, and then she heard the music. At first, Sargam listened for the rumble of a generator, but then she realized they must be running outlaw power—solar energy, which big oil had gotten banned through the National Energy Independence Act. Someone had managed to haul in a bunch of old house and R&B albums, someartists Sargam recognized: Massive Attack, Tricky, and one of her favorite old-school jams, the Sam Cooke classic “Bring It on Home to Me.”
    She followed Sam’s plaintive voice to a crowd gathered on a driveway that served as a dance floor. The turntables were set up in a garage, the door swung open, the power cables snaking down from out-of-sight panels. There were two aluminum cone lights clipped to each bottom corner of the opened garage. The light cast stark, jerky shadows far larger than the dancers, who were clapping and stomping their feet.
    Darren saw Sargam and approached her, handing her a cup, which she sniffed. It was beer, a little warm.
    â€œHomebrew,” Darren shouted over the music. “Strong.”
    She sipped.
    The DJ, a biracial man in his twenties, pale skin but with kinky hair, nodded into his headphones as he faded out the R&B track and kicked in Primal Scream’s “Come Together,” the crowd waving their hands in the air. Most of those dancing were in their twenties and thirties, while around the edges stood a few middle-aged and older folks, smiling, chatting, a few passing hand-rolled cigarettes back and forth. There were kids snaking their way through the dance floor, until a few of the younger, prettier women began shaking their skirts at the children to make way for the real boogying.
    Sargam was intentionally