I really could use an ice cold Nuka Cola.
As many know, it’s a staple in the Fallout universe. Over the years, it’s developed an entire fandom of its own, spilling into the real world through art, collectibles, and endless fan tributes. Last night I was wandering the Wasteland questing for two bottles of Nuka Cola Cranberry (yes, there are many variants beyond the plain version), and it got me thinking about beverage ads. They all promise relaxation—well, except for things like Monster. Ironically, I felt more relaxed in the Fallout universe than I do around actual people. Honestly, I know more folks who would rather deal with super mutants than the Karen next door. At least the mutants have manners.
Today marks the start of a new season in Fallout 76, complete with a major update. I’ll get to it eventually, but mundane responsibilities like car maintenance are standing between me and the Wasteland. That pretty much sums up this past weekend—quiet, scattered, and oddly unproductive. Nothing really stuck in my mind long enough to develop a “theme” for writing, so I ended up with more incoherence than insight.
Labor Day weekends are always quiet, most people off on excursions. One of the bigger excursions—Burning Man—always lands this time of year. I went for 15 years, even worked as a ranger there. Rangers aren’t law enforcement; we’re mediators. We helped people who forgot to eat, drink, or sleep because they were too busy partying. Being a ranger meant seeing both sides: the art, the beauty, and the expression—but also the ugly underbelly.
When I first went, Black Rock City held about 25–30k people. By the time I stopped going, it was closer to 70k. I quit in 2018, partly because my late husband didn’t want to go anymore, partly because graduate school ate all my time. It’s faded into the rearview mirror now, but I still keep in touch with the friends I made there. And honestly? I don’t miss the dust.
Silence can be deafening, and this weekend reminded me of that. When he was alive, the house was never quiet—sometimes because of his presence, sometimes because of his absence, but always busy. He worked from home during the pandemic until his death, which meant no escape, no solitude. Even stepping into the garage bought me only a few minutes before he’d appear with a snide comment or a pointless conversation.
Toward the end, I was embarrassed to have people over. His substance use wasn’t hidden anymore, and visitors didn’t linger. After he was gone, I half-expected some kind of Wizard-of-Oz moment, where the house would suddenly be full of color and music. Instead, there was just… silence. A silence that’s both strange and comforting.
I’ll admit, I whined a lot about being friendless, but the truth is, I wasn’t. Friends were always there—I just didn’t recognize it because they weren’t constantly in my face. Slowly, I’m learning that friendship doesn’t have to mean constant presence.
With some of the disability struggles easing, I feel lighter. I’m even beginning to think about taking small trips again. My dog will love it. He’s always been with me on this journey, even if now it’s just me, him, and the memory of my mom riding along in spirit.