The Y2K Scare

[Frank’s living room, 11:45 PM, December 31, 1999]

“Gary, pick up, you magnificent bastard!” The plastic receiver digs into my ear like a cheap headset at a telemarketing firm. My living room looks like a refugee camp designed by a doomsday prepper with a serious bean addiction. Towers of pork and beans wobble precariously, threatening to topple like a Jenga tower built by a toddler. D-cell batteries scatter across the coffee table like metallic confetti, and duct tape creeps up the walls like silver kudzu. The emergency radio I bought at Radio Shack last week sits silent, waiting for the first signs of digital armageddon.

“Jesus, Frank, you sound like you’re calling from the moon!” Static crackles through Gary’s voice. “Reception’s worse than my aunt Martha’s AM radio during a hurricane. And she lives in Florida, so that’s saying something!”

“Fifteen minutes until digital doomsday! Are you prepped? Ready for the world to go full Mad Max?” The phone cord wraps around my legs like an affectionate python as I pace. My emergency checklist, printed on dot matrix paper and highlighted in five different colors, flutters to the floor.

“Prepped? I’ve got Fort Knox beat! The fridge is wedged against my front door, and I’m wearing Dad’s old army helmet. Makes me feel official, you know?” His smugness oozes through the static. “Plus, I’ve got my Y2K survival guide. Cost me thirty bucks at that survivalist store next to the Pizza Hut. The guy there said it was written by an ex-NASA engineer!”

“A fridge? We’re talking about computers turning on us! Toasters developing sentience! Microwaves going rogue!” Each prediction feels more real as I voice it. “And you’re trusting a manual from a guy who probably thinks crystals can power his car?”

[11:50 PM]

“Don’t forget the robotic meteors!” Gary’s voice rises an octave. “Saw it on that documentary – the one with the guy in the tinfoil hat. Planes dropping from the sky like metallic rain! And don’t even get me started on the traffic lights. They’re all connected, Frank. All of them! One big electronic conspiracy!”

“And the banks, Gary! Our money’s about to vanish like that time you tried doing magic with my ten-dollar bill at Susan’s birthday party!”

“Hey, that was artistry! The rabbit ate it! How was I supposed to know rabbits like money? Besides, I’ve got my survival stash – twenty-seven boxes of Twinkies and cases of Surge soda. Liquid gold, baby! Plus, I printed out a map of Canada from 1995. You know, just in case. Even highlighted the Tim Hortons locations!”

“Canada? That map’s older than some of the computers we’re worried about! And Twinkies? When society collapses, we’ll be trading these beans for gasoline! Fighting over toilet paper like it’s the Holy Grail! Did you at least remember to stock up on water?”

“Better than water! I filled my bathtub with Mountain Dew. For the caffeine, you know? Gotta stay alert when civilization crumbles!”

“Mountain Dew? In your bathtub? Gary, that’s not… Actually, you know what? That tracks. That tracks completely for you.”

[11:55 PM]

“Five minutes, Frank.” Gary’s voice suddenly loses its bravado. “You really think something’s gonna happen? Like, really happen? Because I just realized I spent my entire Christmas bonus on beef jerky and hand-crank flashlights.”

I glance at my stockpile of supplies, feeling doubt creep in. The tower of beans seems to mock me silently. “I don’t know. But what if all those guys on the internet with their complicated diagrams are right? The ones with the spinning GIFs and the scrolling text that keeps saying ‘WAKE UP SHEEPLE’ in bright red Comic Sans?”

“Maybe it’ll just be a little glitch. Like when the VCR eats your tapes. Remember when it ate your sister’s wedding video and she didn’t talk to you for a month?” His attempt at reassurance sounds as shaky as my hands feel.

“Three minutes.” The grandfather clock’s ticking fills the silence between our ragged breaths. Outside, the world holds its breath. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm goes off, and we both jump.

“I hear something,” Gary whispers, his voice tight with tension.

“What? What is it?” My heart pounds against my ribs like a trapped bird trying to escape a cage made of anxiety and caffeine.

“The cat. He’s… he’s trying to escape the kitchen. Past the fridge. Making weird noises. I think he’s plotting something, Frank. He’s been watching the microwave all day. They might be in cahoots!”

“Probably plotting revenge for barricading him in there with a dairy appliance. Cats never forget, Gary. They’re like elephants, but with more spite and better balance.”

[11:59 PM]

“One minute.” The digital clock on my VCR glows an ominous green, counting down humanity’s final moments of technological innocence. The numbers seem to pulse with malevolent intent, like they know something we don’t.

“My clock just flickered!” Gary shrieks. “It’s happening, Frank! And I think my Tamagotchi just gave me a dirty look!”

“Ten… nine… eight…” I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the digital apocalypse. The whir of my computer’s cooling fan in the other room sounds suspiciously like whispering.

“The cat knocked over a lamp!” A crash echoes through the line. “And he’s giving me that look, Frank! That ‘I know something you don’t know’ look!”

“Three… two… one…”

Silence. Pure, anticlimactic silence, broken only by the sound of our panicked breathing and what might be Gary whimpering.

Then, suddenly, a series of pops and sparks erupts from Gary’s end, followed by a smoke detector’s shrill scream and what sounds distinctly like a cat yowling in triumph.

“The machines! They’re rising!” I dive under the kitchen table, convinced the digital revolution has begun. My emergency flashlight rolls across the floor, batteries scattering like scared mice.

“False alarm!” Gary yells through the chaos. “Just knocked over the lamp! Hit something flammable! But the Twinkies are safe! And… oh god, the Mountain Dew is leaking under the bathroom door!”

I crawl out from under the table, brushing bean dust off my clothes. Through the window, fireworks pop in the distance, celebrating another year that stubbornly refuses to end in apocalypse. The sound of Gary’s cat meowing victoriously echoes through the phone line.

“Next year,” I mutter, hanging up the phone, “I’m getting caller ID. And a goldfish.”