Taking License
Among the seasonally green rolling hills, tucked between two dairy pastures, stood a small house with white walls and a red door. The paint was chipping. The breeze coming off the cold Pacific ocean carries salt air — corrosive, tantalizing, and forever the smell of adventure.
The house was somewhere between Santa Rosa and San Francisco, just off a road just off the highway. It was away from the parties and businesses, away from most people. Just a small white house on a dusty road surrounded by cows.
The house was home to two brothers, Davey and Jack. Davey was older. He operated the dairy. He had grown up with the cows and felt a familiarity around them that rivaled his connection with other humans. Except for Jack. Jack was in charge of all the computer and logistical stuff Davey didn’t, couldn’t, or shouldn’t do. Jack enjoyed chatting with the creamery operators in nearby towns. He liked being chummy, being connected with the community.
The dairy business had thin margins. Neither of the brothers looked to expand. They didn’t want to live beyond their means. They had one smartphone and one desktop — for the business. No T.V., no brand-new clothes. Everything was a hand-me-down, a salvage, a two-buck acquisition at the Alameda flea market. The brothers were handy.
If there was one thing, one piece of modernity that the brothers fought hard against, it was their reliance on cars, and gasoline, to run the business. They hated it. They hated the smell, the cost, the effect on their dairy. In just 30 years the land had changed. All thanks to the car. There were discussions over coffee at dusk about switching to horse-power, scrimping and saving to purchase electric vehicles, or rhetorical attempts to absolve their personal responsibility. Nothing ever happened. Until gas prices hit $6 per gallon.
“I’m not doing it anymore,” Jack said. He and his brother were sipping coffee in the early morning winter light.
“Do we have a choice?” asked Davey.
“This is America. There’s always a choice.”
Both brothers sipped their coffee, mulling over how far they were prepared to go based on the other’s actions. After a minute of silence, Jack reached into his back pocket. He leaned forward, plucking out his leather wallet. He slapped the wallet on the table. Davey watched.
Jack removed his driver’s license and held it up to Davey’s face,
“Here’s what I think about gas prices,” Jack said. He held the I.D. between his thumb and index finger. Then, he snapped it like a toothpick. He let out a holler. Smiled. And waited for Davey’s response.
“You gonna bike everywhere?” Davey asked. “You gonna carry bales one by one across the pasture?”
“Hell yeah, brother,” Jack said. He smiled big. Feet up on the table, sipping coffee, leaned back in his chair.
“You know Pa did that,” Davey said. “Pa did that when we invaded Iraq. He was pissed. Mostly about the gas prices. But also at Bush. I remember sitting in that chair you’re sittin’ in now, watching him cut his diverse license in half with cable cutters.”
“Why cable cutters?”
“It was the only thing his drunk ass could find.”
