Metaphysically Challenged

“What was that?”

The question that echoed around the community, a stark eviction notice from Armageddon.

We looked out the window at what appeared to be stars bursting in the air, but after removing the philosophical bent that had arrived with the intrusion of darkness and the fear that accompanies it, I realized it was the electric transformers, our silver moons, exploding in 1912 overture style. 

The rain pounded on the windows, attempting to breech the glass. Lightning in the bruised sky was reflected in the asphalt ponds that formed in the street. The trees, their leaves flailing in their attempt to hang on to the only life they had ever known, or would know, were losing the battle. A flash of lighting accompanied by a thunderous explosion, shined its disturbed light on the billboard on the roof of a building across the street, the accompanying wind sending it like a deranged kite into the nothingness that appeared to be just out of reach.

We closed the blinds and huddled in the closet, awaiting the assurance of death. We must have fallen asleep in the comfort of our reconciliation with the universe. We awoke to a silence we had only heard about from those that had left the allure of our planet, and found quietness to be a novelty so notable, they remarked on its existence in the Congressional record. 

Morning had arrived with the acclaim of a zombie apocalypse. Looking out into the street, it was evident the world as we knew it, had changed. It was more than the lack of noise; it was the lack of apprehension that accompanied the noise that was the most obvious. An occasional siren could be heard in the distance, but it too had been subdued by the whispers that attempted to show their deferential respect by falling to the pavement, as though an offering to the Gods of the industrial revolution.

Those that dared roam the new and strange predicament that had been cast upon us, walked as if in a trance, only their cell phones connecting them to the emptiness on the other end of the electronic sting that connected now with the previous then. Their eyes trained on the blue rectangle they held in their atrophied hands, as if it contained the answer to the question we were afraid to ask, and could only pray, would never come.

Life remained as if frozen in a time of no tomorrows, no yesterdays, no reason to plan for survival as it was evident it was too late to any longer consider procrastination, a last request. God, for those that believed, had left for greener pastures, where hope did not imagine itself to be truth, and truth did not pretend to be the answer. We were left to gamble spiritually if we pleased, despite the warning from battery operated mediums to sit tight, help was just a government away.

The gates of hell were lined with those who were refused entrance as they had not lost enough, and the gates to heaven were closed for repairs. Prayers were falling from the sky like confetti during a ticker tape parade for those who exceeded probability and were considered above average. 

Life limped along on its three wheeled bicycle as the busses refused to run and the subways had drowned, their lungs having failed to function, a misjudgment by those with little or no, foresight.

We were told to remain calm, an empty request during an evacuation where the hope boats had been sent to protected coves in the wilderness. A place where the trees ripped from the ground, did not scream, or at least not loud enough to be consoled by those who clapped just to see if being present contained any relevance.

After days of watching the bread turn green with mold, the silence began to be interrupted by boredom, as those not content with waiting for survival lessons, sought solace at the corner store. No one seemed to care in this time of unpredictability if you sold a stranger a single cigarette, or watched as your neighbor drank his breakfast from a paper bag named, Bagel. 

The nonconformity was disturbing as people began to speak to one another. I was even accosted by the eyes of a stranger who just smiled at my obvious fear of who, or what he might be, or become. I would have chased him down the street and apologized had it not been for the trunk full of guns that waited to see if I appreciated the convenience it offered, and the protection it provided should I be able to afford the cost of bullets. 

Some fool apparently suggested the cost per bullet be raised to a thousand dollars to cut down on unnecessary antics, but someone complained about inflation going through the roof. I had to reconsider the options. Through the roof or…

Someone standing on a soap box on the corner, where they got the box is still a mystery, were proclaiming, “When times are hard, we must be harder.” I could only think of how it felt to put on my driest wet shirt and pretend to listen to Christopherson preach.

I had been preconditioned to the concept of listening. I had previously believed listening had been auctioned off to psychiatrists and philanthropists, who had applied for bankruptcy. Turns out that diversity brings out the best in people, even if from boredom. Does it really matter when the donut shop is closed, and the authorities have no place to contemplate revenge?

The storm although it left us alone in the dark, allowed us to bring a friend or two if we promised to act like human beings. I must say I was impressed; violence became nearly extinct. The squirrels and pigeons however, apparently didn’t hear the Pope’s edict, but then perfection and conformity are myths perpetrated by the nonconformist imperfectionists, to gain attention.

I had heard that animals have an extra sense that warns them of impending disaster; birds flocking, fish schooling, Darwin reconsidering the origins of accidental progress. Then I remembered I was an animal, and should no longer be afraid of the unknown, as everything one day, was to be revealed. I felt better until I found the note from my cat saying, she’d had enough of Bloomberg's theories on relativity, in regard to profit sharing and the minimum wage controversy. But then she has always been a stickler for the theory, if you can’t eat it, you don’t really need it. Perfection is a difficult thing to process, let alone understand; I quit trying.

Things I know will go back to normal; the sweet sounds of bullets ricocheting off the concrete walls of the Peoples Pantry, sirens warning of the dangers evolving from life will return, and then, just as I was about to appreciate hope, the lights came back on. 

Simon once again went back to reading magazines, and smoking cigarettes' ten feet and one-half inch from the front door of the bus depot door. Melvin, our beat cop, went back to leaving a half eaten slice of pizza for Amos, who lives in the dumpster behind the free clinic. Me, I can’t remember all of what happened when the lights went out, but the world was a better place before they came back on. I’d swear to that on a stack of forged twenty-dollar bills.

Oh, and the cat came back.