The Lost Cause by Cory Doctorow

Author:Cory Doctorow
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group

* * *

Ana Lucía had invited us to a potluck dinner in the DSA hall, so I made another frittata and Phuong made a watermelon and feta salad and we put ’em in a crate that I bungeed to the rack of a bikeshare bike.

It was nearly as packed as it had been, not so long ago, when we’d all jammed in to watch the DSA lawyer tell us how badly everything was fucked. Being back with the same people in the same space put a damper on my mood, as did Ana Lucía’s own obvious bitter disappointment. We chatted for a moment by the bar as we waited to refill our beer cups from the keg.

“How is everyone doing?” I asked.

“It’s not good, Brooks. I know that in some ways nothing has changed. I mean, we all expected to be staying in volunteers’ spare rooms”—People’s Airbnb, I mentally translated—“for weeks or even months while the housing got sorted out, but there’s a big difference between a situation like that when it’s temporary and you know you’ll get a place of your own and when you have no idea if you’ll ever get your own place.”

“Oof. I hadn’t really thought of it that way.”

“I mean, honestly, all these people are very nice to take us in, but we can’t live in their houses forever. If I was them, I wouldn’t want refugees living with me forever, either.”

“So what are you gonna do? Are you going to go to Oregon?”

She shrugged, filled her beer cup (we were at the front of the line now). I filled mine. She shrugged again. “I don’t know. Honestly, I just don’t. The walk here was so hard. You know, there were little kids, old people. It was so hard. People got sick. Walking to Oregon—”

“Yeah.”

“But I don’t know.”

She surprised me by hugging me. “Look, Brooks, this is not just your problem. We’re all having this problem together. The fact that you don’t know how to solve it doesn’t mean we can’t solve it. Look, it’s a party. We’re here to say thanks to you folks for taking us in. Let’s enjoy it.”

I hugged her back. “Thanks, Ana Lucía. We are all having this problem together.”

“I know,” she said.

There were speeches and they weren’t great. There are some really good DSA speakers in Burbank but they weren’t the ones who had the podium that night. And the thank-you speeches from the refugees were so awkward, clearly written before all the housing projects got canceled, hastily edited to thank everyone for wanting to help, rather than for helping. When they were over, I finished my plate and pitched in at the dishwashing station for ten minutes, before getting tapped out by Ana Lucía.

“Not a great evening,” she said.

“It was okay,” I lied.

“Thanks for coming. I like your frittata.”

“I’ll send you a recipe,” I said.

Phuong dried off her hands and passed on her apron, too, and we stepped out into the evening, which was cool and clear, with a half-moon rising low in a way that made it look crazy huge.

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