The Subprimes by Karl Taro Greenfeld Page A

today.
    â€œHow come the men don’t do any fieldwork?” Sargam asked.
    â€œOh, they do,” said Sara. “Most of them were up on a job in Standard. Construction. We need all the currency we can get. We pool what we have and somehow it’s enough, but there’s nothing put away. And the kids would like new sneakers. A new soccer ball. That’s the part of this that still breaks my heart. My own daughters are growing up out here. How are we gonna get a Christmas tree? Forget the gifts under it.”
    â€œI never had a tree,” Sargam said. “I turned out okay.”
    Sara smiled. “With all due respect, you’re a tough girl. I suppose our kids are gonna come up as hard people. You know, you want your kids to have a gentle childhood, but that won’t serve them nowadays, will it?”
    â€œI haven’t seen much that I would call gentle since I’ve been on the road.” Sargam swung her hip out and knocked Sara a little sideways. “And who you calling tough?”
    THAT NIGHT THERE WERE FIRES set in split oil drums with wire grills laid across them, potatoes, carrots, and squash roasting alongside six plump chickens. Sara had set out pots of lentils andpots of rice. The tired men and women and the eager children all waited their turn in line. They received one piece of chicken each, but as much vegetables, lentils, and rice as they could eat, and all the hot sauce they could want to spike it all with. From plastic cups they drank iced tea. They sat around eating on the blankets, benches, and lawn chairs, the fatigue from their day showing in their faces. After dinner, a few of them summoned the energy to join the kids in a pickup soccer game in the fading desert light.
    Darren came over. He’d been on the work site all day, and he still had a thick leather work belt with his tools hanging low on his skinny hips. He set down his plastic plate, worked the belt free, and then took a seat next to Sargam.
    â€œYou’re still here.” He smiled.
    He took a forkful of rice and lentils and chewed slowly. “Most folks, a day picking will drive them off.”
    â€œI could see why,” Sargam said. “It is an honest day’s work.”
    â€œBut you can’t beat the pay,” Darren said, holding up his plate.
    â€œOr the company.”
    Sargam could swear she saw Darren blush a shade at this before he turned away.
    â€œDo you think this can last?” Sargam asked. “I’ve been riding around, and this is the first place I’ve come to where it seems to be working.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThis communal sort of life, share and share alike. It’s a place built on fairness.”
    â€œThat’s all we have. They took everything else. But they couldn’t take a man’s sense of what’s right.”
    â€œIn another time they would call this—”
    â€œSocialism,” Darren said. “I know. Shhhh . But I like ‘fairness.’ That’s a better word. You tell these folks here that we are practicing socialism, hell, they might pack up and leave.”
    Sargam surveyed the plowed land, the grooved earth extending clear to the farthest reaches of the development, running between the houses and right up to the streets. “But the land, you can’t stay here forever. Someone will want to restake their claim.”
    â€œI know. If we can make it ten years we could make a case for adverse possession, but what are the odds of that? We’ll get run off. But who knows? There’s no market for these houses. Look at those old mining ghost towns. Nobody ever came back to claim those houses.”
    Darren cleared his plate. One of the girls playing soccer scored a goal and the field erupted in cheers. An older boy ran down to retrieve the ball from between some squash plants, and somewhere in the distance a coyote howled, and then a dog from nearby barked an answer. A few men and women