The Subprimes by Karl Taro Greenfeld Read Free Book Online Page A

journey through my day lacks a specific vigor. I do the minimum. I try to prepare the children for school, pack their lunches, even drive them on late mornings or when they can’t be compelled to walk, contributing, in this way and many others, to the carbon-emissions nightmare we have careened toward in our SUVs—I still drive a hybrid, grandfathered in from when hybrids and electric cars were still legal—and, for the most privileged among us, private jets. I am the adequate father of Ronin and Jinx, the boy thirteen and the girl ten; ex-husband of Anya, former wife of fourteen years. I knew having children was an awful idea; it invests you. Suddenly, the malignant activities of man, our tireless turning-to-shit of everything around us, of ourselves, even, all makes us anxious because of them. Our kids will have to live in all this shit, shit that we have all made. We suck.
    So, however long it takes to get from here to Armageddon, until we are more tumor than human, until our Earth is more landfill than land, until our seas are more plastic bags than H20, I have to keep muddling through, providing for a family; making sure my children are clothed, fed, vaccinated; getting pipes snaked and modems rebooted and cats deflead.
    Or, at least I did when there were still cats.
    Remember cats? They were cute.
    WHILE I’M WALKING TO MY office, down the narrow, putatively charming streets, Iliff, Albright, Bashford, lined with two-story Cape Cod–style houses, the bulk of these monstrosities too big for the lots, crowding out the vestigial front yards that are too small for any children to play catch on, much more mount a touch football game, if any children can be induced to look up from PlayStation 7 or X 3 -Box long enough to consider an actual game involving sticks and balls instead of paddles and joysticks, I see jogging past me a woman, attractive, freckled face, narrow reddish neck, tanned clavicle, Lycra T-shirt. She wears headphones, of course, and sunglasses, and runs on her heels, her skintight jodphur-like trousers making swishing noises as she passes. And behind her trails a pointy-snouted dog, sharp-eared, high curled tail, tongue hanging from a mouthful of glistening teeth. No collar. Gray and rust coat. The canine regards me warily as it trots past. It takes me a few seconds but . . . that’s no dog.
    That’s a coyote. In high morning, a full six hours past its bedtime. And this nasty creature is padding along, stalking, apparently, a jogger.
    What did I say? About end times?
    â€œHey, lady,” I shout. “Miss! HEY!”
    Her headphones drown me out.
    The two of them, jogger and coyote, are moving too fast. I hesitate to give chase. But I turn, trot after them, waving my hands, the coyote turning to watch me for a moment, as if to confirm, yes, a human is chasing me. Ah, the hunter is now the hunted! The coyete’s eyes are green-brown, pupils slit and appraising, also inquisitive, as if—is this guy, this man, this biped, serious?
    He yips. High-pitched, followed by a long, drawn-out growl that sounds almost thoughtful.
    Who does this mutt think he is talking to? I retain the pride in being of the species Homo sapiens , still ruler of this planet. The coyotes are inheriting the Earth, of course, up to twenty pups a litter, vast tracts of foreclosed homes to thrive in and around, their only natural predator, the mountain lion, having been driven to extinction. And for years they’ve been growing fat on domesticated cats, who themselves are in danger of extinction. They’ve moved up the food chain and lately have been increasingly attacking humans. But can’t you, coyote, wait just a decade or two? Then all this will be yours.
    Then from behind me I hear clicking noises, paws and claws on concrete, and I turn and see trotting on the road behind me another pair of coyotes. And making fast progress beside me on the lawn above a white retaining wall is another. They