THE WHOLE WORLD IS INSANE (EXCEPT FOR ME)

"It's almost like the whole world is insane," he said while sitting on my couch, cracking open another beer.

“Tell me about it,” I replied. I lifted the beer can above me while standing in the center of my one-bedroom apartment that was about five blocks from the beach in Da Nang, Vietnam. I threw the empty can to the floor. It made a noise that probably annoyed my neighbors. But I didn’t care. “Do you want another one?” I asked my friend as I casually walked over to the fridge. I was barefoot and shirtless. I liked living my life like that. It was spiritual (kinda) and carefree.

“What’s with you?” he asked. His name was Bon Appetit. I called him Bon for short, or Bonny, or B. Whatever.

“What do you mean, my good man?”

I pulled out two cans for Bon and I. Then I spun around and hurled one directly at his face. He just barely caught it in time as he was placing his empty down onto the coffee table in front of him.

“Whoah!” he screamed. “Watch out!”

“That’s right, man. You better watch out. Times are tough.”

I cracked the beer. The foam tingled my teeth. Yeah. I drank it down. End times. An end of the world beer. Cool.

“They don’t seem to be that tough for you.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“Well, you seem to be doing just fine.”

“Did somebody hit you on the head when you were a kid?”

“No. Why? Why do you ask?”

“Listen, Bon. I know you’re a fictional character and all. A figment of my imagination. With all the stress. Anxiety. I mean, I get it. This is just how writers live…” I motioned my hands at my messy counter covered in empty wine and water bottles. “But you’ve got to get your head straight, man. Have you been listening to me tonight? I told you that the water pipes back home will soon be defunct. Nobody will have any water. There will be pigeons and rats and mice and roaches taking over the city streets when the trash clean-up backs up. And the president has already declared certain liberal cities of America to be ‘anarchist’ zones. Doesn’t he realize that the entire country is an anarchist zone? America has been rogue since before you and I were born, my friend.”

“You seem to think very highly of yourself.”

We both drank at our beers.

“Of course I do, man. That’s all a cover. A game. A ploy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, man. I need smarter friends.”

“You’re certainly a smart-ass.”

“That’s true.”

“So tell me, what’s your game?”

“The game is to act like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Oh really?”

“That’s it. That’s the game.”

“If that’s true, then why do you live in this cheap place by the beach in a third-world country?”

“Oh, low blow! You got me there.”

I took a big chug of my beer, nearly draining it.

“Why don’t you sit down? You’re making me nervous.”

“Nervous? Why am I making you nervous?”

“I dunno, man. I’m sitting. I’m relaxed. I feel like you’re a little … on edge.”

“That’s right,” I said, nodding. “I am. You’re very perceptive, B.”

“That’s not my name. Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because. This is my place. It’s my humble abode. I feel free here. I will call you whatever I want to call you.”

“You sure are acting strange tonight. You’re even talking funny.”

He took his measly sip of beer. To be honest, we weren’t really friends. He just sold me some weed every now and then. I’d met him at one of the bars when I was chasing some tail around there. The girl I liked had flirted with him. Then she had left us both to flirt with somebody else. And whilst she’d done so, Bon and I had bonded. He had some weed from a pipe that he had made by himself. He said that he was from Ireland. I had guessed Scotland. I told him I was from America. And after that, he said he felt sorry for me. These were the toughest of times for the American expat, the vagabond, the beatnik, the deadbeat, the draft between the ears, the coiled snake, the soda machines, the bars, restaurants, rednecks, sailors, ducks, swans, goats, mothers, fathers, cousins, aunts, uncles, and all-around malcontents. It was a tough time for everybody, indeed.

“So what have you been writing?”

“What do you mean?” I looked up at him.

“I mean, you keep sitting down at that table. Is that your desk? And then you stick a cigarette into your mouth. Turn on Beethoven or Mozart. And then you start writing like I’m not even here. You’ve done it three times already. Why don’t you just finish whatever you’re doing? Don’t worry about me. I’ll grab some of that weed. We can smoke some whenever you’re finished.”

“Where’d you get that weed anyway?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because. All the drug routes should be blocked by now.”

“Why’s that?”

He was breaking up some of the weed onto the table and then carefully placing it into his homemade pipe. It looked like a pen cut in half. With a washer glued to the end of it.

“Well, this virus has changed everything. More wars will be starting soon, you can count on that. The South China Sea is a powder-keg. And Taiwan is a sitting duck.”

“It is?”

“Sure.”

“Why’s that?”

He held the flame to his nose as I turned off Beethoven and held my cigarette between my fingertips.

“Because it’s one of the most prominent positions for the U.S. empire. At least it is, over here in Asia.”

“What about the Philippines?”

“What about the Philippines?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

He started coughing, exhaling smoke.

“Come on, man!” I yelled. I threw my cigarette at him. “Do that shit outside! I have neighbors. They might call the police! This is no time to get in trouble with a Communist dictatorship!”

He laughed, holding his hands above his head.

“Okay, okay. Sorry! I didn’t realize you’d be so nervous tonight.”

“Nervous? The whole world’s gone insane, man. We’re witnessing a total collapse of human society. The oceans are warming up. And the soils are eroding. Plastic in the ocean, you know the drill. We’re living in the end times. It’s true. That’s what I’ve been writing about, if you really wanted to know.”

I held the cigarette between my lips, as I lit up—covering the flame with my two hands. Then I exhaled, feeling better somewhat.

“Hey, I thought you said we can’t smoke in here?”

“Damnit!” I shouted. “This is my apartment. I’m the writer here. I’ll make the rules. If I want to smoke in here, I will.”

“So I have to smoke outside?”

“Oh, now who’s the smartass?”

“You were saying, General.”

“Yes, that’s better. I’m the one doing the talking here.”

“Sure. Sure.”

He was breaking up more marijuana to smoke in his two-bit pipe. I dragged on my cigarette and kept on running my mouth.

“Cambodia won’t let anybody into their country without a three-grand deposit.”

“For what?”

“COVID tests. And…”

“And what?”

“You’re not gonna like this one.”

He hit the weed. (That’s Stoner speak.)

“Tell me anyway.”

“Okay. Well, it’s for your own funeral.”

“My own funeral?”

“Not yours. It’s an objective term.”

“Are you saying I’m an object?”

“Bastard.”

“And what about Laos?”

“Laos is a fiasco.”

“It is?”

“Sure. Same with Myanmar.”

“Why’s that?”

He started dumping the ashes from the pipe onto my coffee table. I felt like smacking him in the face or throwing my beer right at him. I didn’t know why.

“You brute! Knock it off! I have neighbors. Do you want to get us killed?”

“Man, you’re starting to freak me out.”

“Good! You should be freaked out. We all should be freaked out.”

“Why?”

“We should all be anarchists.”

“You seem to fit the bill.”

“Sure, sure. But I’m not some counter-culture misfit.”

“No. Of course not…”

“I’m just a nobody writer. Life’s better that way.”

“Yeah, you say that now.”

“When the smoke clears, I’ll have some new material.”

I was finished with my cigarette. I felt like going for a walk. But the outside world was much too dangerous. There was a war going on. And we were right in the middle of it. It was viral, minuscule, minute—almost invisible to the human eye, in fact, it was. And that was the scariest thing of all. Even my friend knew it. He started getting all paranoid, Bon did. I was having that effect on him.

“Man, what if this never goes away?”

“It’s already started.”

“What has?”

He looked at me, terrified.

“The end of the world,” I gestured with my hand. Then I lifted my can of beer, drained it. And slammed it to the floor.

“Do you want another one?”

“I guess so…”

He shook his can, to see what was left inside of it. Then he took a little sip.

“Man, you can’t even drink. Don’t you get it? There’s nothing left to look forward to. We’re all goners. This planet is screwed. We’re done. Toast. It’s over. Finished. Nada. We are watching the last few generations of the human species. Who the hell knows what’s gonna happen to them. It’s already starting. Rising seas. Hotter summers. Melting ice caps. Even political scientists and historians are scared, terrified. Scientists in Australia aren’t having kids anymore. They’re getting the hell outta there. And professors? Forget it. They’re not even bothering to have lessons. They’re asking the kids existential stuff, like ‘Why are we here? Let’s go outside.’ That’s what they’re telling them…”

I was leaning over my keyboard typing like a madman.

When I stood back, turning around—I suddenly noticed Bon was gone.

“Bon Appetit!” I screamed.

But he was nowhere to be found.

Ah, to hell with him. He’ll get caught out there, I said to myself. Then I almost started laughing. That startled me. So I reached for my pack of cigarettes, opening it, taking one out and placing it to my lips. There. I felt better immediately. Ah. Sanctuary. Smoke-filled lungs at the end of the world. And plenty of beer in the fridge, especially now that my friend was gone.

Who needs friends when the world is going to hell?

I sat down on the couch and contemplated the apocalypse. I better smoke out on the balcony, I told myself.

Then I got up, walked to the door, opened it. And I stepped out onto the balcony, shutting the door behind me. Quietly. Expertly.

I didn’t want to wake the neighbors.