Surviving Ice

Sebastian must be thinking the same things that I am. “Have you lived in San Francisco all your life, Jono?”

He nods. “Born and bred. In the Bay City area, anyway. My parents still live out in Diablo. I visit them sometimes.”

“Diablo . . .” I frown, remembering it simply for its name when Ned was talking about it once. “I thought that was a wealthy neighborhood.”

“It is,” Sebastian mumbles, just before downing a sip from his bottle of Bud.

Jono snorts. “No one there is going hungry, that’s for sure.”

I look to Sebastian, who’s watching Jono with mild curiosity now. “So that means . . .”

Jono takes a huge bite of his burger and then says something that sounds like, “My parents are rich.”

I don’t like to pry, and normally I don’t care enough to, but this is just too sad. And weird. “So your wealthy parents disowned you and you live on the streets.”

“Disowned?” He scoffs, like the idea is preposterous. “No. I left of my own free will when I was twenty. I’ve been on the streets for almost a year now.”

“But you have a roof to sleep under.” A beautiful roof, I’m sure.

“If I wanted to continue mankind’s dependence on artificial happiness.”

“Jono made the decision to turn away from the materialism and capitalism that feed today’s greedy civilization and live a simpler life,” Dakota explains, not a hint of irony or criticism in her tone. Jono, who is only twenty-one and therefore five years younger than her. “Isn’t that fascinating?”

“So you’re not actually homeless.”

“Oh, I am,” Jono says, his brow furrowing in earnest.

“No, you’re a California bum. There’s a difference.” There’s plenty of them, more the closer to San Diego that you go, where it’s even warmer. They couch-surf at people’s houses, surf and party all day, and feed themselves with food stamps. I can’t say how often Ned bitched about those leeches. At least every time one of them wandered into the shop in flip-flops and his board tucked under his arm, definitely.

Sebastian clears his throat, hiding a small smile behind his burger, but says nothing.

“I’m exercising my right to live how I want to in my country. Isn’t that why America is so great?” He grins and nods at Dakota, waiting for her smile and nod. “See? She gets it. I don’t need all those covetous belongings—the Mercedes, the designer clothes—and the pressure of the rat race that gets you nowhere.”

“You mean nowhere like a job? To pay your bills?” I’ve never actually had a serious conversation with one of these bums before. Is this guy for real?

He shrugs. “I have no bills, and if I get a job, then I have to pay taxes. Why would I want to do that?”

“To earn your keep?” I know my voice is rising now, but I can’t help it. I guess Ned rubbed off on me, because this guy’s logic is making me insane.

“There’s enough money to go around.”

“But . . .” I feel my face crinkle up before I can control it. I open my mouth to say that that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, but I find a burger shoved into it, thanks to Sebastian. He winks at me.

Jono turns his attention to him now. “Dude, you get me, right? The way this government expects us to serve its whims, buy into its bullshit, and fight its battles like little puppets and sheep, under the guise of freedom and honor, when it’s all about greed and power.”

This idiot just said that to a soldier. Oh, the irony is too much.

Thank God my mouth is full, to stop me from blurting out what Sebastian is—or was. I’d feel like a complete ass, because I make it a rule not to talk about anything shared while I work on people’s ink. Kind of a body artist–patient privilege. Plus, I know that Sebastian doesn’t like to talk about his time in the military.

Three heartbeats of silence hang over the table, where Sebastian’s stony expression gives nothing away and Jono waits for him to respond, and Dakota watches with wide, curious eyes, and I wonder if I’m going to have to apologize for my friend killing her dinner guest.

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Sebastian finally says.

My eyebrows must be halfway up my forehead.

“We’re all like little pawns in their master scheme. Millions and millions of little tiny puppets with strings attached to us”—Jono starts miming the act of puppet master over his plate of food—“doing whatever they tell us and bullying us into paying for things we don’t need or want. We end up working like dogs until we’re old and gray so they can waste it on unnecessary things like . . .” He frowns, searching for an example.

“Military defense?” Sebastian offers.

“Yeah! Armies and ships and guns. See?” Jono bumps his arm with his fist. “You totally get it! You want to talk about wasting taxpayers’ dollars. I was down on Coronado Island a few months ago—have you seen that place?”

Sebastian nods once.

“Man, the billions of dollars they spent on all those ships and submarines, when our own country’s infrastructure is sorely lacking, for wars that don’t even exist.”

“What? What are you talking about, they don’t exist? Do you not read any news?” I finally blurt out.

Jono waves away my words with a dismissive hand. “It’s all propaganda. They tell us there’s a war so they can justify spending our tax dollars on defense toys and all these highly trained soldiers. I read an article in the paper the other day about those . . . what are they called?” His eyes scrunch up in thought. “Yeah, those super-elite guys that they always send in. What are they called?”

“Navy SEALs,” Sebastian says.

Jono snaps his fingers. “Yeah! Them. Do you know it costs a quarter of a million dollars to train each of those human weapons? And for what? So our government can say that we have these indestructible stealthy task forces, so don’t mess with us?”

“Actually, it cost them half a million to train me,” Sebastian says quietly, taking a long sip of beer, his eyes downcast. “And no one is indestructible.”

I’m no longer paying attention to the idiot sitting across from me. Now I’m keenly focused on the stranger who sits beside me, and how much more I need to learn about him. Sebastian already said he was in the navy, but did he just admit to being a SEAL? Granted, everything I’ve learned about our military forces comes from Hollywood, but the one thing they’ve all portrayed is that those guys are some of the toughest, smartest, bravest of any soldiers out there.

They actually are weapons.

Jono hasn’t clued in to the fact that he’s insulting the man sitting next to him. “Half a million dollars!” He whistles. “And, really, what has that bought America? Not nearly enough, I say. Those guys are probably over there, drinking beer and playing Ping-Pong on taxpayers’ hard-earned money. I’ll take my lifestyle over slaving to pay for that any day.”

Sebastian turns to size up the California bum with a hard look. I lean forward, itching to hear his response, to hear him drop a hammer down on this ideological asswipe.

“Ivy, where are your keys?” he says instead, his tone calm and low, unbothered.