The Best Way to Live

The droplets looked like roaches, brown. The gas stove lit up and the blue flame created a pot for the water to be boiled. It took ten minutes to purify the water, to make it transparent again. The man, Foster Gills at the stove saw his two sons. They were four and six years-old.

The reporter took copious notes regarding how this single Delawarean father cared for his two boys. With the knowledge that Jed Hollinger could cram into the corners of his notebook, he could report on all of this activity.

“Come here, boys,” Gills commanded. He had heated the water and made it potable like magic. It was simple science, however. Hollinger didn’t miss the scene. He wrote and he wrote and he wrote. He jotted down the details with extreme and exacting precision.

“Is it like this all day?” Hollinger asked.

“Yes it is.” Gills poured some water in from the refrigerator to give a coolness while still maximizing the content of ready water. He bit only slightly into his reserve.

“Some days the water is yellowish. Then bloody red. Now, it’s back to brown. I’m just glad we have these water bottles and this stove.”

“Is it a racial thing?” Hollinger asked.

“Nah. It’s the folks in Dover. The private companies get all the grief but few ever look at the government and the politicians that get everything wrong.”

Hollinger furiously wrote.

“If I could deal with a politician or a businessman I would be suspicious of both. But I would be more suspicious of the politician.”

“Do you think that if prices went up, quality would follow?” Hollinger questioned.

Gills laughed. “I would pay top dollar if I didn’t have to do this every day,” he said.

The boys sipped their water from the stove and refrigerator. “We tend to get by, though. I’ve got a grant. It’s not much but it’s not from a federal, state, or local source.”

“Totally private?” Hollinger wanted to know.

“Yes. I’ve got an LLC and everything. It’s about $40,000 a year. It covers supplies, Wi-Fi, and online texts. I teach them both in the same class despite the age difference.”

“You make it work….” Hollinger replied.

“I do more than my best. Whenever I feel like I’m slacking, I consider my boys and what future they will have. They can easily be lost or find a place for them to remain curious and wonder about the world. It’s not just about going to college but about being prepared as men of color in America.”

The boys finished their sips of water.

“What are their names?” Hollinger asked.

“The six year old is Montreal and the four year old is Montauk.”

“‘M in Geography in a quiz show inspired you….” Hollinger mentioned.

“I won a round in a trivia game at a bar. Everyone was calling me those names. It stuck in my mind to name my sons after my good fortune.”

Hillinger laughed. “That’s great.” He switched gears and went into reverse.

“About this private grant, where did it come from and how did you get involved?”

“After I decided to homeschool the boys, I figured I would not rely on the State to facilitate their education. Briggman Schools contacted me after I went down a long list of schools. They told me I can teach them in my home. Right now, I’m giving them a lesson in government malfeasance.”

“How so?”

“I’m letting them know that this water situation is all the fault of the government. Instead of settling things in the courts, providing armed forces, and a police officer on the beat, they’re concerned with things they ought not to be.”

“What does Briggman have to do with it?”

“They’re a wide ranging corporation. They deal with real estate and education. They’re fighting to get us clean water and cleaner minds, unsullied by government ‘education.’”

“If you could keep together all the pieces, what would you like to change first?”

Gills held up a cup and put the brown water into it from the faucet. He held it up again just a bit closer to Hollinger.

“Of course. Do you plan and outline?”