Silverless in the Hellscape

A few days ago I wrote about selling my cache of silver coins (note to web-surfing thieves - it's already gone. If you're dead set on stealing it, go rob Charles freakin' Schwab).

A couple friends emailed to ask "But, Jim, without precious metals, how would you survive the post-apocalyptic dystopia?"

Excellent question! A few thoughts:

1. I've Never Really Believed in That Strategy.
When Mad Max shows up with his gang of burly hooligans, and I offer them a shiny silver half dollar in exchange for a crust of bread or a sip of water, I'm figuring Max would be keen on the rest of my stash. I'm not convinced that burly post-apocalyptic hooligans would have any sense of restraint, or of good faith fair trade.

Even here in Utopia, folks must take precautions with their treasure caches. And it sure won't get safer in the After Times, even if I have a trusty shot gun and a plucky attitude.

2. My Role in All This
Assuming I could make things work by trading for food and water via Mercury dimes stashed in my basement, and nobody sketchy notices and assertively requests the remainder, I still have to ask myself: would I be that guy?

I can visualize several post-apocalyptic dystopia personality types. I've seen all the movies! There's the Fierce And Well-Muscled Predators, the Fraught, Filthy Children, the Shifty, Opportunistic Survivors, the Determinedly Heroic Dads And Their Terribly Worried Wives....etc.

There may or may not be a place for The Bloke Making It All Happen Via A Steady Outflow Of Pre-1965 Washington Quarters Thanks To His Foxy Ability To Establish Trading Connections With Other Wheeler/Dealers While Making Peace With Predators Who'd Be Happy With Chintzy Bribes And Never Ever Disembowel Him For Access To The Rest Of His Cache.

Even if that were A Thing, I just don't think I'm that guy. I'm more the Monk Sitting In Lotus Position Who Eventually Tips Over From Starvation. Or the Sweet-Eyed But Loopy Old Rascal Who Quietly Slips His Final Morsel Of Energy Bar To The Adorable Moppet Next Door Before Wandering Sadly Off Into The Woods To Croak. I just don't see myself as the wheeling/dealing Sergent Bilko of hellscape post-America...even if that were a viable career path.


And, anyway, I won't even be in America anymore. Because while I might not wheel and I might not deal, I do know when to get the hell out (here's my guide to developing an optional escape route without turning it into a whole drama or collapsing into willfully blind complacency).