Drop City

theirs. I mean, just look at me--I'm sitting here by this out-of-sight river in this amazing place having a cup of tea with you, and that's something I never would have been able to do on my own.”
    “But the hair,” Pamela said. “What about the hair and the weird clothes and all that? And the drugs? What does that have to do with getting back to nature?” She paused to light a cigarette, store-bought, out of the shiny cardboard box. Star watched her shake out the match and drop it to the dirt under the table. “You know what getting back to nature to me is? Just this, living day to day, working hard and taking what the land gives you, and that has nothing to do with face paint or LSD or bell-bottom pants . . .”
    Star shrugged. “I don't know, it's hard to explain. It's just hip, that's all.”
    Pamela worked the cup between her hands, and it was her turn to gaze out over the river. She sighed. “It takes all kinds, I guess.”
    Star was going to agree, but she wasn't sure if the comment was a not-so-subtle dig, as in _It takes all kinds and you people are a bunch of greasy freaks and dopeheads who ought to pack up your beads and your sandals and head back to California before the going gets rough.__ And then she was going to say, _And what kind are you?__ but in that moment it dawned on her that Pamela was just like them. She wasn't buying into the plastic society, she wasn't going to live the nine-to-five life in a little pink house in the suburbs and find her meat all wrapped up in plastic for her at the supermarket. She'd done that--worked in an office in downtown Anchorage--and she'd dropped out just as surely as anybody at Drop City had. She was pretty, she was smart, she knew what she wanted--she was confident, that's what she was, confident in a way Star had never been, and that was something to aim for. The thought came to her: What if there were no Marco, no Norm, no Drop City? Would she be able to go out into the world and survive? Or was she just another _chick__ newly hatched from the egg, all fluffy and warm and helpless?
    But here she was out under the open sky nailing down strips of black plastic to feed the heat of the sun to the garden, working just as hard as any _cat__ on the place, and you could hardly call that helpless. And when she was done with that she was going to haul buckets of water up from the river and dump them at the base of each plant, and when that was finished she was going to milk the goats, whip up a batch of fried rice and teriyaki salmon for lunch and pick a bucket of highbush cranberries and put them up in wax-sealed jars with a scoop of white cane sugar out of the ten-pound bag and two jiggers of brandy each, and when _that__ was done, well, she'd see what the rest of the day would bring.
    Merry was saying, “No way. Uh-uh.”
    Reba drove a sliver of wood through the plastic to hold it in place. “Jiminy said you pushed him. Everybody said so--Bill, Verbie, even Weird George. And Pan. I hear Pan was involved too.”
    “Well, if I did, I didn't mean to. I really like him, you know that. But sometimes he gets so fucking, I don't know, _stubborn,__ like he's six instead of nineteen, and as far as Ronnie's concerned, yes, I did go up to his tent. And we got high. That's all. Not that it's anybody's business.”
    “What about Jiminy's? Isn't it his business? Didn't I hear you say you were going to try to make that work, no more sleeping around and da-da-da?”
    Merry looked up from the other end of the sheet, disrupting the flow of it, and Star could see the light pooling like oil in the dark folds of plastic. At the far end of the garden was the original cabin, the one Norm's uncle had left behind, the logs gone gray with age, trees growing out of the sod of the roof. Beyond that was the new meeting hall, square all around and roofless still, the logs yellow as an animal's teeth where the bark had been stripped away, and a dozen people clambering all over it with saws, axes, hammers. Star could hear the muffled thump of metal on wood, the shriek of the chainsaw, the occasional curse. “I don't know,” Merry said, “I may be mistaken, but wasn't that you I saw coming out of the bushes with Deuce two nights ago? Upriver? Late? With a smile on your face?”
    “We were looking for blueberries, that's all. Because if you think--”
    Star could see she was lying, not that it made any difference. If Reba wanted to be a hypocrite, that was her business. And