Larry Lefkowitz
CARIBOOHOO
That was the headline in the newspaper, not the most felicitous perhaps, but par for whosever job it was to put catchy headlines for news items in the Alaska Times; in this case, when the plague began to take its toll of animal life – having not yet reached the humans of Alaska. Maybe it was a cry of fear for the humans whom the plague might reach, despite all the reasons everyone gave in support of the hope or belief that it would not spread to humans. We are Alaskans, people told themselves, tough individuals, unlike the plague-struck lower forty-eighters.
Half the population of the lower forty-eight state America were dead. Hawaii had a quarter of its population wiped out – the ocean had provided a temporary deterrent to spread of the plague, but the island was doomed.
"Canada is a barrier," they said, trying to buoy their spirits, "and our population has been inoculated with a hopefully, if hastily, tried anti-plague serum." But a few hundred cases had been reported lately, and who knew what the future held.
"Our winter will deter or destroy the bacteria," they said. But now it was spring and the caribou, bears, and moose had begun succumbing, which was not the most hopeful sign.
“I guess we’ll have to give up venison,” Clyde Benson said to his wife.
Jane Benson tried to think of an amusing comment to deflect the gloomy atmosphere, but couldn’t come up with anything. She was too worried and too frightened. “Too bad Mars flights aren’t yet practical,” came to mind, but she dismissed it as too pathetic under the circumstances. Under the circumstances, anything she said would be worse than not saying anything.
“I’m going to take the boat for a ride,” he said. “Want to come along?”
She thought for a moment. She didn’t want to come. And yet maybe she should. She feared he might jump out of the boat and swim toward the horizon. He was an excellent swimmer. And she remembered that once he had said, “If I get cancer, I’ll just swim out and not come back.”
There were rumors that some people had decided to put an end to their lives before the plague took them. Who could blame them? The slow, painful process of death after the first symptoms of the disease was not something to look forward to.
The first symptoms were red spots, which became black spots, which spread all over the body.
She remembered the nursery rhyme inspired by a plague in the Middle Ages, and its supposed deterrent:
Ring around the rosy
A pocket full of posies
No ring around the rosy in the current plague. And no posies, either.
“Too many people on the planet,” opined Clyde. “It set the stage for the appearance and spread of the disease. Not here in Alaska, but we are its victims.”
We’re not guilty, she thought, yet did not say. She couldn’t have children. Maybe for the best now, she thought. When the subject came up, he would say to her, “We have our dogs; they are our children.”
He meant it and she was comforted by it. He would search the dogs’ fur for signs of the disease.
“Should I take care of them?” he asked her.
He meant killing them before they caught the plague.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t know the answer. He provided it. “Not yet, not yet, maybe …”
“Maybe we’ll catch it before they do,” she said lamely.
He shot her a look, but remained silent. After a few moments, he said, again, “Not yet.”
They were both silent.
“When the time comes, I could take them with me in the boat. The two of us and them.”
A certain symmetry, she thought. Somehow the thought comforted her.
"Cariboohoo,” he said suddenly.
She laughed in spite of herself.
“Cariboohoo,” she said.
That was the headline in the newspaper, not the most felicitous perhaps, but par for whosever job it was to put catchy headlines for news items in the Alaska Times; in this case, when the plague began to take its toll of animal life – having not yet reached the humans of Alaska. Maybe it was a cry of fear for the humans whom the plague might reach, despite all the reasons everyone gave in support of the hope or belief that it would not spread to humans. We are Alaskans, people told themselves, tough individuals, unlike the plague-struck lower forty-eighters.
Half the population of the lower forty-eight state America were dead. Hawaii had a quarter of its population wiped out – the ocean had provided a temporary deterrent to spread of the plague, but the island was doomed.
"Canada is a barrier," they said, trying to buoy their spirits, "and our population has been inoculated with a hopefully, if hastily, tried anti-plague serum." But a few hundred cases had been reported lately, and who knew what the future held.
"Our winter will deter or destroy the bacteria," they said. But now it was spring and the caribou, bears, and moose had begun succumbing, which was not the most hopeful sign.
“I guess we’ll have to give up venison,” Clyde Benson said to his wife.
Jane Benson tried to think of an amusing comment to deflect the gloomy atmosphere, but couldn’t come up with anything. She was too worried and too frightened. “Too bad Mars flights aren’t yet practical,” came to mind, but she dismissed it as too pathetic under the circumstances. Under the circumstances, anything she said would be worse than not saying anything.
“I’m going to take the boat for a ride,” he said. “Want to come along?”
She thought for a moment. She didn’t want to come. And yet maybe she should. She feared he might jump out of the boat and swim toward the horizon. He was an excellent swimmer. And she remembered that once he had said, “If I get cancer, I’ll just swim out and not come back.”
There were rumors that some people had decided to put an end to their lives before the plague took them. Who could blame them? The slow, painful process of death after the first symptoms of the disease was not something to look forward to.
The first symptoms were red spots, which became black spots, which spread all over the body.
She remembered the nursery rhyme inspired by a plague in the Middle Ages, and its supposed deterrent:
Ring around the rosy
A pocket full of posies
No ring around the rosy in the current plague. And no posies, either.
“Too many people on the planet,” opined Clyde. “It set the stage for the appearance and spread of the disease. Not here in Alaska, but we are its victims.”
We’re not guilty, she thought, yet did not say. She couldn’t have children. Maybe for the best now, she thought. When the subject came up, he would say to her, “We have our dogs; they are our children.”
He meant it and she was comforted by it. He would search the dogs’ fur for signs of the disease.
“Should I take care of them?” he asked her.
He meant killing them before they caught the plague.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t know the answer. He provided it. “Not yet, not yet, maybe …”
“Maybe we’ll catch it before they do,” she said lamely.
He shot her a look, but remained silent. After a few moments, he said, again, “Not yet.”
They were both silent.
“When the time comes, I could take them with me in the boat. The two of us and them.”
A certain symmetry, she thought. Somehow the thought comforted her.
"Cariboohoo,” he said suddenly.
She laughed in spite of herself.
“Cariboohoo,” she said.
The stories, poetry and humor of Larry Lefkowitz have appeared in many publications in the United States, Israel, and Britain. Among the publications: Thema, A cappella Zoo, Third Wednesday Magazine, Yellow Medicine Review, Silver Boomer Book, The Vocabula Review, Runes, The Literary Review, Midstream, Crimespree. His humorous fantasy and science fiction collection, Laughing into the Fourth Dimension is available from Amazon books. Novel: The Novel, Kunzman, the Novel! from Lulu.com, Amazon.
